UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT  LOS  ANGELES 


STUDIES   IN   STAGECRAFT 


1^97     4 


Uniform  with  This  Volume 


The  Theory  of  the  Theatre 

By  CLAYTON   HAMILTON 
Fourth  Printing 

Contents  :  I.  The  Theory  of  the  Theatre.  What 
is  a  Play  ?  The  Psychology  of  Theatre  Audi- 
ences. The  Actor  and  the  Dramatist.  Stage 
Conventions  in  Modern  Times.  Economy  of  At- 
tention in  Theatrical  Performances.  Emphasis 
in  the  Drama.  The  Four  Leading  Types  of 
Drama.    The  Modern  Social  Drama. 

II.  Other  Principle*  of  Dramatic  Criticism.  The 
Public  and  the  Dramatist.  Dramatic  Art  and  the 
Theatre  Business.  The  Happy  Ending  in  the 
Theatre,  The  Boundaries  of  Approbation.  Im- 
itation and  Suggestion  in  the  Drama.  Holding 
the  Mirror  up  to  Nature.  Blank  Verse  on  the 
Contemporary  Stage.  Dramatic  Literature  and 
Theatric  Journalism.  The  Intention  of  Perma- 
nence. The  Quality  of  New  Endeavor.  The 
Effect  of  Plavs  upon  the  Public.  Pleasant  and 
Unpleasant  Plays.  Themes  in  the  Theatre.  The 
Function  of  Imagination. 

$1.50  net 


HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 
NEW  YORK 


STUDIES  IN  STAGE 
CRAFT 


BY 
CLAYTON  HAMILTON 

MEMBER    OF    THE    NATIONAL    INSTITUTE    OF    ARTS    AND    LETTERS 


NEW  YORK 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COINIPANY 

1914 

APfii  8 


Copyright,  1914, 

BY 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 

Published  January,  1914 


\  "" 


TO 

Walter  ^ampben 

FIRST  AND  FOREMOST  OF  MY  FRIENDS 


PREFACE 

This  book  is  a  companion  volume  to  The  Theory 
OF  THE  Theatre.  The  principles  outlined  in  the 
former  work  were  derived  from  a  study  of  dramatic 
art  in  general,  without  particular  reference  to  any 
single  period;  but  the  principles  outlined  in  the 
present  work  have  been  derived  mainly  from  a  study 
of  the  drama  of  to-day.  In  this  growing  age  of 
stagecraft,  it  is  necessary  that  criticism  should  bestir 
itself  to  keep  astride  with  the  rapid  revolutions  in 
dramatic  artistry  that  are  being  effected  before  our 
very  eyes.  The  Theory  of  the  Theatre  dealt 
chiefly  with  principles  inherited  by  the  present  from 
the  past:  but  Studies  in  Stagecraft  deals  chiefly 
with  principles  that  seem  destined  to  be  bequeathed 
by  the  present  to  the  future. 

Most  of  the  studies  included  in  this  volume  have 
appeared,  in  earlier  versions,  in  one  or  another  of 
the  magazines  in  which,  in  recent  years,  I  have  con- 
ducted departments  of  dramatic  criticism, — namely. 
The  Bookman,  Vogue,  Everybody's  Magazine,  and 
Dress  and  Vanity  Fair.  One  chapter  has  been  com- 
pounded from  two  papers  contributed  to  Art  and 
Progress.  To  the  proprietors  of  these  publications 
I  am  indebted  for  the  privilege  of  quoting  from  my 
contributions  to  their  pages.  It  is  scarcely  necessary 
to  add  that  these  studies  have  been  diligently  revised 
and,  in  many  passages,  entirely  rewritten. 

C.  H. 
New  York  City:  1914. 


CONTENTS 


I  The  New  Aet  of  Making  Plays    . 

II  The  Pictorial  Stage  .... 

III  The  Decorative  Drama 

IV  The  Drama  of  Illusion    . 

V  The  Modern  Art  of  Stage-Direction 

VI  A  Plea  for  a  New  Type  of  Play 

VII  The  Period  of  Pragmatism 

VIII  The  Undramatic  Drama   . 

IX  The  Value  of  Stage  Conventions  . 

X  The  Supernatural  Drama 

XI  The  Irish  National  Theatre  . 

XII  The  Personality  of  the  Playwright 

XIII  Themes  and  Stories  on  the  Stage  . 

Xrv  Plausibility  in  "lays 

XV  Infirmity  of  Purpose 

XVI  Where  to  Begin  a  Play   . 

XVII  Continuity  of  Structure 

XVIII  Rhythm  ant)  Tempo    . 

XIX  The  Plays  of  Yesteryear 

XX  A  New  Defense  of  Melodrama 

XXI  The  Art  of  the  INIoving-Picture  Play 

XXII  The  One-Act  Play  in  America 

XXIII  Organizing  an  Audience  . 

XXIV  The  Function  of  Dramatic  Criticism 
Index 


PAGE 

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25 
34 
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167 
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194 
208 
225 
240 
257 
273 
289 


STUDIES   IN   STAGECRAFT 


STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 


THE  NEW  ART  OF  MAKING  PLAYS 

The  great  Spanish  dramatist,  Lope  de  Vega, 
once  wrote  a  didactic  poem  entitled  The  New  Art 
of  Making  Plays;  and  this  title  seems  particularly 
applicable  to  the  art  of  the  drama  at  the  present 
time.  We  are  living  in  a  progressive  period,  when 
the  methods  of  all  our  practical  and  theoretical 
activities  are  undergoing  a  rapid  revolution ;  and 
it  is  therefore  not  surprising  that  we  should  find 
the  technique  of  the  drama  changing  year  by  year 
before  our  very  eyes. 

A  few  years  ago,  the  President  Emeritus  of 
Harvard  University  made  the  somewhat  startling 
statement  that  civilization  had  progressed  faster 
and  further  in  the  last  hundred  years  than  in  all 
of  the  preceding  twenty  centuries,  and  that  the 
conditions  of  life  at  the  close  of  the  eighteenth 
century  differed  more  from  the  conditions  at  the 
present  day  than  they  differed  from  those  which 
appertained  to  ancient  Rome.     Similarly,  it  may 

3 


4  STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

be  asserted  that  the  art  of  the  theatre  has  pro- 
gressed faster  and  further  in  the  last  thirty  years 
than  in  all  of  the  preceding  centuries  that  have 
intervened  since  iEschylus,  and  that  we  find  our- 
selves confronted  at  the  present  time  with  an 
utterly  new  art  of  making  plays.  In  this  connec- 
tion it  should  be  confessed  at  once  that  progress 
is  not  necessarily  amelioration,  and  that  there  is 
always  a  possibility  that  a  step  forward  may  be  a 
step  away  from  the  ideal.  In  some  respects  the  ' 
general  life  of  ancient  Athens  was  better  than 
our  general  life  to-day,  for  all  its  practical  ad- 
vantages of  telephones  and  trolley-cars ;  and  in 
many  respects  the  drama  of  Sophocles  and  Shakes- 
peare was  better  than  the  drama  of  Pinero,  in 
spite  of  all  our  present  perfectness  of  craftsman- 
ship. But  the  student  of  any  art  should  dally 
little  with  such  absolute  and  final  questions  as  that 
of  what  is  better  and  what  is  worse;  and  he  may 
spend  his  time  more  profitably  in  the  modest  en- 
deavor of  defining  differences. 

The  differences  between  the  drama  of  to-day 
and  the  drama  of  all  preceding  periods  have  not 
as  yet  been  clearly  and  emphatically  defined  to 
the  theatre-going  public;  and  this  is  the  reason 
why  many  of  the  best  artistic  efforts  of  our  cur- 
rent theatre  remain  misunderstood  and  are  denied 
their  proper  measure  of  appreciation.  In  the 
evolution    of  any   art,   creation   always   precedes 


THE  NEW  ART  OF  MAKING  PLAYS     5 

criticism,  "nee  criticism  is  merely  an  analysis  of 
what  has  been  created;  and  the  main  difficulty 
that  is  encountered  by  the  best  practitioners  of 
the  new  art  of  making  plays  is  the  fact  that  our 
current  dramatic  criticism  has  not  as  yet  caught 
up  with  them.  Their  new  efforts  are  judged  by 
old  standards ;  and  The  Thunderbolt,  or  The 
Pigeon,  or  The  Blue  Bird,  or  What  Every  Woman 
Knows,  are  still  considered  to  be  something  less 
than  masterpieces,  because,  in  both  materials  and 
methods,  they  differ  markedly  from  As  You  Like 
It  or  Tartufe.  It  is  therefore  desirable  that  we 
should  endeavor  to  enumerate  at  least  a  few  of  the 
definitive  features  of  the  new  art  of  making  plays ; 
and  this  purpose  may  be  most  easily  fulfilled  by 
setting  forth  several  of  the  most  noticeable  differ- 
ences between  the  drama  of  the  present  and  the 
drama  of  the  past. 

In  the  first  place,  we  should  note  that,  whereas 
the  drama  of  other  days  was  compounded  of  only 
two  elements  of  narrative  —  namely,  character 
and  action  —  the  drama  of  to-day  is  compounded 
of  three  elements  —  namely,  action,  character, 
and  setting.  Dramatic  incidents  which  used  t* 
be  conceived  as  happening  anywhere  and  any- 
when  are  now  conceived  as  happening  at  a  par- 
ticular time  and  in  a  particular  placed 

This  localization  of  incidents  in  place  and  time 
may  be  noted,  in  all  the  narrative  arts,  as  the  one 


6  STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

feature  that  distinguishes  modern  work^rom  that 
of  all  preceding  periods.  In  his  essay  on  Victor 
Hugo's  romances,  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  pointed 
out  that  the  one  new  note  introduced  into  the 
novel  at  the  outset  of  the  nineteenth  century  was 
the  insistence  on  environment  as  a  formative  in- 
fluence on  character  and  a  determining  motive 
toward  action.  But  the  drama  could  not  cope 
with  this  modern  philosophical  conception  of  the 
importance  of  environment  until  the  great  wave 
of  mechanical  invention  which  swept  over  the  world 
during  the  middle  of  the  nineteenth  century  had 
equipped  the  theatre  with  those  appurtenances 
which  were  necessary  to  enable  it  to  project  the 
element  of  setting  adequately  to  the  eye. 

But  this  epoch-making  revolution  in  the  physical 
equipment  of  the  stage  occasioned  an  alteration  in 
the  very  essence  of  the  drama.  In  all  former  ages 
the  drama  had  made  its  appeal  primarily  to  the 
ear,  like  the  arts  of  poetry  and  music ;  but  now  for 
the  first  time  it  was  enabled  to  make  its  appeal 
directly  to  the  eye,  like  the  arts  of  painting  and 
sculpture.  In  our  own  days  the  art  of  the  drama 
has  ceased  to  be  essentially  an  auditory  art  and 
has  ranked  itself  for  the  first  time  in  history  as  a 
visual  art;  and  this  point  must  be  clearly  under- 
stood if  we  are  to  appreciate  properly  the  new 
art  of  making  plays. 

For  this   revolution  in   the  basis   of  dramatic 


THE  NEW  ART  OF  MAKING  PLAYS     7 

appeal  occasioned  a  necessary  evolution  in  the  art 
of  acting.  Whereas  acting  had  formerly  been  a 
presentative  art,  it  now  became  a  representative 
art.  The  actor  had  formerly  attracted  attention 
to  himself,  like  an  orator  upon  a  platform,  and 
always  in  his  work  had  presupposed  an  audience; 
but  he  was  now  required  to  comport  himself  as  if 
no  audience  were  present,  and  to  treat  his  par- 
ticular personality  as  only  a  component  part  of 
a  general  stage-picture. 

And  this  alteration  in  the  art  of  acting  required 
an  alteration  in  the  art  of  writing  for  the  stage. 
For  the  presentative  actor  it  was  necessary  to 
write  rotund,  rhetorical  speeches  which  should 
give  him  ample  opportunity  for  elocution  and  the 
use  of  sweeping  gesture;  but  for  the  representa- 
tive actor  it  is  necessary  to  write  in  the  terms  of 
common  conversation.  Any  speech  that  is  at  all 
rhetorical  will  pull  the  modem  actor  out  of  the 
picture  and  will  shatter  that  illusion  of  actuality 
which  is  the  ultimate  aim  of  the  contemporary 
stage. 

From  this  consideration  we  derive  the  precept 
that  the  highest  exhibition  of  literary  tact  that 
may  be  achieved  by  the  contemporary  playwright 
is  to  persuade  his  audience  that  he  is  not  employ- 
ing any  trick  of  literary  style.  Formerly  plays 
were  written  in  verse  or  polished  prose;  nowadays 
they  must  be  written  for  the  most  part  in  casual, 


8  STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

drifting  colloquialisms.  People  do  not  actually 
talk  in  verse ;  neither  do  they  talk  in  formal  prose ; 
and  it  has  therefore  become  the  leading  literary 
merit  of  our  latter-day  drama  to  present  its  dia- 
logue divested  of  all  "  literary  "  turns  of  phrase. 

Actions  speak  louder  than  words.  This  prov- 
erb has  become  an  axiom  of  our  new  art  of  mak- 
ing plays.  No  less  an  authority  than  Mr.  Augus- 
tus Thomas  has  asserted  that  every  good  play  of 
the  contemporary  type  must  merely  add  the  ele- 
ment of  dialogue  to  a  pantomime  that  is  already 
good.  The  modern  playwright  must  rely  more 
upon  his  visual  imagination  than  upon  his  literary 
skill,  and  must  be  able  to  conceive  his  narrative 
primarily  as  a  drift  of  moving  pictures. 

In  this  requirement  he  may  be  aided  greatly 
by  the  collaboration  of  that  new  and  very  interest- 
ing functionary  of  the  modern  theatre,  the  stage- 
director  of  his  play.  It  is  the  business  of  the 
stage-director  to  coordinate  the  contributions 
of  the  author,  the  actors,  the  designer  of  the 
scenery  and  costumes,  and  the  manipulator  of  the 
lights,  into  an  harmonious  work  of  art.  The 
stage-director  is  often,  in  the  contemporary  the- 
atre, the  dominant  artist  of  the  drama;  and  in 
any  critical  consideration  of  a  play  that  has 
passed  through  his  hands,  it  is  frequently  more 
necessary  to  devote  attention  to  his  artistry  than 
to  that  of  either  the  actors  or  the  author.     Any 


THE  NEW  ART  OF  MAKING  PLAYS     9 

plaj,  for  instance,  that  has  been  produced  by  Mr. 
David  Belasco  must  be  studied  as  a  Belasco  play, 
regardless  of  who  wrote  it  or  of  who  the  actors 
were. 

These  alterations  in  the  materials  and  methods 
of  the  drama  have  required,  in  recent  years,  a  cor- 
responding change  in  the  construction  of  our 
theatres.  So  long  as  the  drama  remained  an 
auditory  art  projected  by  a  presentative  actor, 
it  could  be  housed  effectively  in  an  ample  audi- 
torium; but  when  it  became  a  visual  art  exhibited 
by  an  unobtrusive  actor,  it  called  for  a  theatre 
that  should  gather  a  selected  audience  into  inti- 
mate proximity  with  the  stage.  Hence,  through- 
out the  last  thirty  years,  our  theatres  have  pro- 
gressively been  diminished  in  size,  until  the  pre- 
vailing type  at  present  is  no  larger  than  the 
Maxine  Elliott  Theatre  in  New  York.  It  is  a 
matter  of  history  that  the  promising  project  of 
the  New  Theatre  failed  mainly  because  the  edifice 
which  housed  the  institution  was  too  large  to  per- 
mit of  the  effective  presentation  of  the  prevailing 
type  of  the  contemporary  drama.  Very  recently 
an  exaggeration  of  the  present  tendency  in  the- 
atrical construction  has  been  evidenced  by  the 
advent  of  the  Little  Theatre,  which  is  surely  more 
diminutive  than  necessary.  But  this  current  as- 
pect of  the  craft  of  theatre-building  is  one  of  the 
points  that  must  be  taken  into  consideration  in 


10  STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

any  critical  judgment  of  our  new  art  of  making 
plays. 

It  should  be  evident  from  these  brief  enumera- 
tions that  it  is  impossible  to  measure  the  con- 
temporary drama  by  the  same  critical  standards 
that  have  been  applied  to  the  dramatic  art  of 
other  ages.  The  very  meri^,of  the  Elizabethan 
drama  become  defects  when  m  observe  them  from 
the  point  of  view  of  the  q|P;emporary  theatre; 
and  the  faults  of  other-minaM  periods  have  been 
erected  into  the  virtues  of  wjkown. 

A  new  art  of  criticism  is  inquired  to  interpret 
our  new  art  of  making  plays.  As  yet  our  con- 
temporary creation  in  the  drama  is  more  noble 
than  the  interpretation  that  it  has  received.  This 
is  the  reason,  doubtless,  why  so  many  well-meaning 
societies  are  organized  for  the  "  uplifting "  of 
the  modern  stage,  and  why  so  few  endeavors  are 
instituted  for  the  appreciation  of  the  theatre  of 
to-day.  But  any  age  of  the  drama  that  is  illus- 
trated by  the  simultaneous  activities  of  Pinero  and 
Brieux  and  Sudermann  and  Maeterlinck  and  Shaw 
and  Hauptmann  and  Hervieu  and  Galsworthy  is 
undeniably  a  great  age ;  and  it  is  therefore  the 
responsible  and  humble  duty  of  our  dramatic 
critics  to  teach  the  general  public  to  estimate  it 
at  its  worth. 


II 

THE  PICTORIAL  STAGE 

The  elevation  of  the  element  of  setting  to  an 
importance  coordinate  with  that  of  the  elements 
of  character  and  action,  which  has  rendered  the 
contemporary  drama  more  visual  in  its  appeal 
than  the  drama  of  any  earlier  period,  was  occa- 
sioned by  the  combination  of  two  causes,  one  of 
which  was  artistic  and  the  other  scientific,  yet 
both  of  which  tended  toward  that  end  which  is 
the  aim  of  every  epoch-making  revolution  — 
namely,  a  return  to  nature. 

The  first,  or  artistic,  cause  of  the  revolution 
in  the  drama  had  already  been  at  work  for  a  long 
time  in  the  other  arts  to  which  the  drama  is  allied. 
If  we  review  the  history  of  any  of  the  arts  which 
represent  human  beings,  we  shall  notice  that  the 
one  feature  which  distinguishes  most  clearly  their 
ancient  from  their  modern  manifestations  is  the 
growing  importance  which  has  been  bestowed  in 
modern  times  upon  the  element  of  setting.  An- 
cient art  projects  its  figures  abstractly,  out  of 
place,  out  of  time;  modern  art  projects  them  con- 
cretely,  in   a   particular   place,   at   a   particular 

11 


12  STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

time.  Even  in  imagination  we  cannot  localize 
the  Venus  of  Melos;  we  are  forced  to  look  upon 
her  with  no  sense  of  where  or  when.  But  we  know 
that  Saint-Gaudens's  Farragut  is  standing  on  the 
bridge  of  a  ship  and  peering  forward  into  the  wind 
to  direct  the  course  of  its  progress ;  and  we  know 
that  his  Lincoln  in  Chicago  has  just  risen  from 
a  chair  upon  the  platform  at  a  public  assembly 
and  is  about  to  address  the  audience  before 
him. 

The  same  distinction  may  be  noted  between  an- 
cient and  modern  painting.  There  is  no  back- 
ground at  all  to  the  figures  in  Pompeiian  frescoes ; 
we  see  a  dozen  Cupids  dancing,  but  we  derive  no 
idea  whether  they  are  dancing  on  the  greensward 
or  on  a  marble  floor.  Even  in  the  great  age  of 
Italian  painting  the  background  is  developed  for 
a  merely  decorative  purpose  and  is  not  brought 
into  actual  relation  with  the  figures  in  the  fore- 
ground. Leonardo's  inscrutable  background  of 
jagged  rocks  and  undetermined  sky  does  not  help 
us  to  decide  whether  Monna  Lisa  is  actually  in- 
doors or  out  of  doors ;  wherever  she  is,  she  is  cer- 
tainly not  wandering  through  that  lonely  and  un- 
habitable vale.  I  doubt  if  any  of  the  Italians 
ever  painted  a  greater  landscape  than  that  which 
decorates  the  distance  in  the  Castelfranco  Ma- 
donna of  Giorgionc;  but,  in  the  actual  and  literal 
sense,  that  landscape  has  absolutely  nothing  to  do 


THE  PICTORIAL  STAGE  13 

with  the  Madonna  herself  or  either  of  her  two  at- 
tendant saints.  But  the  Dutch,  who  in  this  regard 
are  the  first  of  modem  painters,  chose  to  display 
their  human  figures  in  living  relation  to  the  land- 
scape or  comfortably  at  home  in  an  interior  be- 
longing to  them.  In  such  a  typical  modern  paint- 
ing as  the  Angelus  of  Millet,  the  people  would 
lose  all  meaning  if  they  were  taken  out  of  the 
landscape  and  the  landscape  would  lose  all  mean- 
ing if  it  were  divested  of  the  people ;  the  sense 
of  a  definite  time  and  a  definite  place,  which  an- 
cient art  suppresses,  are  here  as  necessary  to  the 
picture  as  the  people  themselves  or  the  act  of  de- 
votion in  which  they  are  engaged. 

A  similar  revolution  has  been  accomplished 
gradually  in  the  art  of  literary  narrative.  The 
earliest  tales  in  the  literature  of  every  nation 
happen  "  once  upon  a  time,"  —  it  does  not  matter 
when,  it  hardly  matters  where.  Medieval  stories 
like  the  novelle  of  Boccaccio  happen  either  out  of 
doors  in  a  conventional  landscape  or  indoors  in  a 
conventional  palace;  but  all  palaces  look  alike, 
and  every  landscape  is  more  decorative  than 
habitable.  It  was  only  toward  the  end  of  the 
eighteenth  century  that  novelists  began  to  de- 
velop their  settings  in  harmony  with  their  action 
and  their  characters ;  and  it  was  not  until  the 
nineteenth  century  that  they  began  to  insist  that 
certain  people  can  accomplish  certain  deeds  only 


14  STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

in  a  certain  place  and  at  a  certain  time.  Such  a 
story,  for  example,  as  Mr.  Kipling's  An  Habitation 
Enforced,  in  which  the  setting  is  the  prime  motive 
and  (as  it  were)  the  hero  of  the  tale,  is  exclusively 
characteristic  of  the  present  age  of  narrative  and 
could  never  have  been  conceived  in  any  former 
period. 

It  was  inevitable  that  this  growing  sense  of 
the  importance  of  the  element  of  setting  as  a 
necessary  factor  in  human  life,  and  therefore  as 
an  essential  detail  of  art,  should  overtake  the 
drama ;  but  its  conquest  of  the  drama  was  deferred 
until  the  present  age  because  at  no  earlier  period 
was  the  theatre  adequately  equipped  to  cope  with 
the  demands  that  it  imposed.  The  second,  or 
scientific,  cause  of  the  revolution  in  the  drama  was 
the  great  wave  of  practical  invention  which  swept 
over  the  nineteenth  century  and  made  the  modem 
theatre  possible.  The  introduction  in  quick  suc- 
cession of  gas  lamps,  the  calcium  light,  and  elec- 
trical illumination,  the  consequent  abolition  of  the 
"  apron  "  stage,  the  invention  of  the  "  box-set," 
the  new  conception  of  the  proscenium  as  a  picture- 
frame  and  the  stage  itself  as  a  picture  placed 
within  it,  the  growing  zest  for  actuality  in  the 
appointments  and  the  furniture  of  the  stage  — 
these  practical  improvements  in  the  theatre  had 
to  be  accomplished  before  the  drama  could  follow 
the  lead  of  all  the  other  narrative  arts  in  ex- 


THE  PICTORIAL  STAGE  15 

hibiting  characters  in  action  with  precise  atten- 
tion to  particularities  of  time  and  place. 

We  derive  from  a  typical  Greek  tragedy  no 
more  definite  sense  of  place  and  time  than  we 
derive  from  looking  at  the  Venus  of  Melos.  The 
action  simply  happens  —  we  care  not  when  or 
where.  In  most  Elizabethan  plays  the  action  is 
exhibited  merely  as  happening  on  the  bare  plat- 
form of  the  stage.  When  an  actor  walks  upon 
the  stage  he  walks  into  the  story;  when  he  leaves 
the  stage  he  leaves  the  story,  and  we  never  ask 
where  he  has  gone  to.  A  few  of  the  Elizabethans 
—  and  this  is  particularly  true  of  Shakespeare  — 
exhibit  a  truly  modern  feeling  for  setting  as  an 
influence  on  character  and  action ;  but  since  their 
theatre  was  not  equipped  to  represent  setting  to 
the  eye,  they  were  forced  to  suggest  it  to  the 
imagination  in  passages  of  descriptive  poetry. 
Whenever  we  need  to  know  the  exact  place  or  the 
exact  hour  of  a  scene,  Shakespeare  has  to  tell  us 
in  his  lines.  He  does  it  wonderfully  — "  How 
sweet  the  moonlight  sleeps  upon  this  bank,"  or 
"  'Tis  now  the  very  witching  time  of  night " ;  but 
on  the  modern  stage  we  do  all  this  with  scenery 
and  lighting,  and  make  the  same  effect  directly, 
by  pictorial,  rather  than  indirectly,  by  literary, 
means.  The  tragedies  of  Corneille  and  Racine 
could  all  be  played  in  a  single  stage-set — the 


L 


16  STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

conventional  hall  of  a  conventional  palace.  Mo- 
liere,  in  his  entire  series  of  comedies  and  farces, 
used  only  three  distinct  stage-sets  —  one  the  pub- 
lic square  of  old  Italian  comedy  in  which  are  sit- 
uated all  the  houses  of  all  the  leading  characters, 
another  conceived  vaguely  out  of  doors  in  the 
country,  and  the  third  representing  a  room  in  a 
house.  When  the  action  happens  in  a  room,  as  in 
Le  Tartufe,  the  set  is  not  designed  particularly 
to  represent  the  personality  of  the  man  who  owns 
the  house  nor  the  habits  of  the  people  who  live  in 
it.  Furthermore,  it  is  the  only  room  in  the 
whole  house  that  is  imagined  to  exist ;  and  when 
a  character  leaves  the  stage  he  does  not  go  into 
an  adjacent  room  but  walks  bodily  out  of  the 
story. 

But  for  every  act  of  every  play  in  the  contem- 
porary theatre  we  imagine  a  particular  set  that  is 
entirely  new  and  is  devised  especially  to  fit  the  ac- 
tion and  to  complement  the  characters.  We  know 
exactly  what  is  beyond  every  door  and  every  win- 
dow ;  and  when  an  actor  passes  through  a  door  we 
know  where  he  is  going.  We  select  and  arrange 
the  furniture  for  the  insight  it  will  give  into  the 
habits  and  the  taste  of  the  person  to  whom  the 
room  belongs.  We  keep  a  most  careful  account- 
ing of  time,  and  indicate  its  passage  by  minute 
gradations  in  the  lighting.  We  convey  as  much 
as  we  possibly  can  by  visual  means,  and  we  rely 


THE  PICTORIAL  STAGE  17 

upon  the  lines  only  when  the  appeal  to  the  eye 
has  reached  its  limit. 

It  is  an  axiom  of  art  that  a  new  opportunity 
imposes  a  new  obligation ;  and  the  artist  in  the 
modern  theatre  is  obliged  to  make  his  setting  tell 
as  much  of  his  story  as  it  can  be  made  to  tell. 
No  better  illustration  of  this  point  has  been  af- 
forded in  recent  seasons  than  the  novel  and  charm- 
ing set  devised  by  Mr.  Louis  N.  Parker  for  his 
pleasant  little  comedy  of  happiness,  Pomander 
Walk.  The  stage  exhibited  five  little  Queen  Anne 
houses  arrayed  in  a  crescent  beside  the  loitering 
Thames  and  inhabited  by  a  dozen  or  more  delec- 
table people  wearing  the  picturesque  old  costumes 
of  1805 ;  and  the  narrative  was  woven  out  of  the 
humorous  and  sentimental  threads  of  their  several 
life-stories.  Divested  of  its  setting,  this  exquisite 
little  piece  could  not  possibly  be  presented ;  the 
play  would  lose  all  its  meaning  if  it  should  lose  its 
scenery. 

In  the  modern  theatre  we  have  learned  to  con- 
vey abstract  ideas  by  visual  "  business,"  as  Mr. 
Augustus  Thomas  conveys  his  ideas  about  nervous 
and  hysterical  disease  by  the  "  business  "  of  the 
cat's-eye  jewel  in  the  last  act  of  The  Witching 
Hour,  or  as  he  explains  his  theory  of  the  influence 
of  colors  on  the  human  temperament  in  the  third 
act  of  The  Harvest  Moon.  We  have  learned  to 
draw  character  completely  to  the  eye,  without  the 


IS  STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

use  of  words,  as  Sir  James  Barrie,  at  the  opening 
of  What  Every  Woman  Knows,  makes  us  fully 
acquainted  with  the  personal  traits  of  all  three  of 
Maggie's  brothers  in  the  three  or  four  minutes 
that  elapse  before  the  first  line  of  the  play  is 
spoken.  In  Herman  Bahr's  The  Concert,  the 
theme  and  the  entire  story  of  the  play  are  summed 
up  and  uttered  eloquently  to  the  eye  in  a  period 
of  protracted  silence  which  culminates  at  the  sec- 
ond curtain-fall. 

Whereas  the  poetry  of  the  drama  was  formerly 
expressed  exclusively  in  the  lines,  it  is  now  ex- 
pressed mainly  through  the  pictorial  appurte- 
nances of  the  stage.  It  is  by  no  means  true  that 
the  drama  has  lost  its  capacity  for  expressing 
poetry ;  it  has  merely  altered  its  means  of  express- 
ing it.  Mr.  Belasco's  original  one-act  version  of 
Madam  Butterfly  was  fully  as  poetic  as  the  Eliza- 
bethan plays  of  Fletcher,  whose  verse  still  haunts 
our  ears  with  melody  as  it  echoes  through  the 
silence  of  three  centuries.  Poetry,  in  a  large  and 
general  sense,  may  be  defined  as  that  solemn, 
tremulous  happiness  that  overcomes  us  when  we 
become  unwittingly  and  poignantly  aware  of  the 
existence  and  the  presence  of  the  beautiful. 
Poetry,  thus  conceived,  may  be  expressed  through 
the  medium  of  any  art;  and  Raphael  is  assuredly 
no  less  a  poet  though  he  may  never  have  written 
that  fabled  century  of  sonnets.    And  poetry  may 


THE  PICTORIAL  STAGE  19 

be  conveyed  as  fittingly  through  our  new  art  of 
making  plays  as  through  the  rich  and  resonant 
medium  of  Elizabethan  verse.  In  my  entire  expe- 
rience of  play-going  I  remember  no  more  poetic 
moment  in  the  theatre  than  that  moment  in  the 
first  act  of  M.  Maeterlinck's  Sister  Beatrice,  as 
produced  at  the  New  Theatre  in  New  York,  when 
the  Prince  Bellidor  appears  to  Beatrice  through 
the  opened  doorway,  and  the  audience  looks  afar 
through  a  tracery  of  half-imagined  trees  to  a  sky 
of  blue  awakening  to  gray  and  palpitant  with  a 
single  throbbing  star. 

In  Elizabethan  times  it  was  necessary  that  every 
playwright  should  be  able  to  express  himself  in 
verse.  Nowadays  a  different  equipment  is  re- 
quired for  the  task  of  making  plays.  The  con- 
temporary theatre  demands  a  vividness  of  visual 
imagination  which  has  never  in  any  other  age  been 
demanded  of  the  dramatist.  As  the  drama  has 
reduced  its  reliance  on  the  purely  literary,  it  has 
increased  its  reliance  on  the  purely  pictorial; 
if  it  demands  less  of  the  imagination  of  the 
writer,  it  demands  more  of  the  imagination  of  the 
painter. 

But  this  state  of  affairs  has  arisen  only  within 
the  memory  of  the  present  generation  of  play- 
goers; and  the  art  of  designing  stage  scenery 
may,  therefore,  fairly  be  denominated  the  youn- 
gest of  all  the  arts.    This  art  is  still  so  young,  and 


20  STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

is  being  developed  so  rapidly  year  by  year,  that 
it  is  as  yet  extremely  difficult  to  codify  its  leading 
principles.  But  three  of  these,  at  least,  seem 
certain  to  subsist  through  any  future  unfolding 
of  the  art;  and  these  three  may  safely  be  formu- 
ited  at  the  present  time. 
First  of  all,  the  scenic  artist  must  always  plan 
his  set  to  meet  the  narrative  exigencies  of  the 
action.  This  fact  imposes  on  him  many  limita- 
tions to  which  the  usual  painter  of  landscapes  or 
interiors  is  not  submitted;  but,  as  a  compensation, 
it  offers  to  him  many  suggestions  at  the  outset  of 
his  work  which  may  prove  stimulating  to  his  in- 
stinct of  invention.  If  a  pistol  is  to  be  thrown 
through  a  window,  as  at  the  climax  of  The  City, 
the  window  must  be  set  in  a  convenient  and  em- 
phatic place.  If  an  important  letter  is  to  be  writ- 
ten, a  desk  must  be  set  in  such  a  situation  as  to 
reveal  the  facial  expression  of  the  actor  who  is  to 
write  it.  The  number  and  the  place  of  the  doors 
to  a  room  are  conditioned  by  the  narrative  nature 
of  the  entrances ;  and  the  arrangement  of  trees 
and  rocks  in  a  landscape  must  conform  to  the 
needs  of  the  actors  in  the  traffic  of  the  stage. 
The  late  Clyde  Fitch,  who  always  planned  his  own 
scenery,  was  exceedingly  deft  in  devising  settings 
that  would  aid  the  business  of  his  narrative.  In 
his  last  play.  The  City,  he  contrived  a  set  for  the 
first  act  that  made  it  possible  for  him  to  conduct 


THE  PICTORIAL  STAGE  21 

an  extended  and  important  scene  with  no  actors 
on  the  stage.  He  slanted  a  room  so  that  two  walls 
only  were  exhibited  to  the  audience,  one  of  which 
was  pierced  with  sliding  doors  opening  on  a  hall- 
way which  disclosed  a  flight  of  stairs  leading  to 
an  upper  story.  The  elder  Rand,  in  the  play, 
made  an  exit  into  the  hallway,  after  which  he  was 
heard  to  drop  heavily  to  the  floor;  and  subse- 
quently a  hurried  passing-by  of  many  people  in 
the  hall,  with  sentences  half-interjected  through 
the  opened  doors,  revealed  to  the  audience  that 
Rand  had  died  suddenly  of  heart  failure.  On  the 
other  hand,  in  the  production  of  The  School  for 
Scandal  at  the  New  Theatre,  the  setting  of  the 
screen  scene  was  faulty  because  it  hampered  the 
business  of  the  play.  A  staircase  was  devised 
elaborately  to  lead  upward  into  the  apartment  of 
Joseph  Surface  from  an  outer  door  imagined  un- 
der the  stage;  and  this  staircase  was  so  arranged 
that  every  actor  at  his  exit  was  obliged  to  turn 
his  back  to  the  audience  and  launch  his  final  line 
over  his  shoulder.  Thereby  the  sharp  wit  of  Sher- 
idan's exit  speeches  was  impaired.  Even  if  the 
stairway  had  been  turned  about,  the  entrance 
speeches  of  the  actors  would  have  been  discounted 
similarly  by  the  concealment  of  their  faces.  The 
only  logical  conclusion  is  that  the  staircase,  which 
is  clearly  implied  in  Sheridan's  lines,  should  have 
been  imagined  off'  the  stage,  as  it  was  in  Sheridan's 


22  STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

own  day  at  Drury  Lane,  beyond  an  entrance  door 
in  the  set  itself. 

The  second  duty,  or  opportunity,  of  the  scenic 
artist  —  according  as  we  view  the  case  —  is  to 
make  his  set  so  conform  to  the  mood  of  the  play 
that  it  will  reveal  immediately,  through  its  visual 
appeal  to  the  audience,  as  much  as  possible  of  the 
essential  nature  of  the  action.  Contemporary 
dramatists  depend  upon  their  scenery  to  localize 
their  plays  in  place  and  time,  and  to  suggest  the 
emotional  spirit  in  which  the  story  must  be  viewed. 
What  Shakespeare  did  in  long  descriptive  pas- 
sages of  verse,  like  the  first  speech  of  the  banished 
duke  in  ^«  You  Like  It,  or  the  exquisite  descrip- 
tion of  a  moonlit  night  which  opens  the  last  act  of 
The  Merchant  of  Venice,  is  now  done,  without  any 
lines  at  all,  by  the  artist  who  designs  the  scenery. 
Under  modern  conditions,  the  stage-set  of  a  room 
may  often  be  made  visually  descriptive  of  the 
character  who  is  supposed  to  inhabit  it.  Thus,  in 
the  first  act  of  The  Music  Master,  the  personality 
of  the  hero  was  revealed  before  his  entrance  by  the 
aspect  of  the  room  in  which  he  lived  —  a  shabby 
room  in  an  East  Side  boarding-house  with  a  mantel- 
piece supplied  with  many  knick-knacks  which  were 
marvelously  selected  to  reveal  the  nature  of  the  man 
who  owned  them.  The  duality  of  mood  which 
dominates  the  whole  play  of  The  Witch,  which  was 
presented  at  the  New  Theatre,  is  indicated  at  the 


THE  PICTORIAL  STAGE  23 

outset  by  the  stage-set  of  the  first  act.  This  set 
exhibits  a  forlorn  and  barren  landscape  punctuated 
in  the  foreground  by  an  applc-trce  in  full  blossom ; 
and  the  aspect  of  the  setting  suggests  at  once  the 
general  atmosphere  of  grave  and  gray  New  Eng- 
land which  permeates  the  play,  relieved  only  by  the 
single  florid  figure  of  the  young,  impassioned 
heroine. 

The  third,  and  perhaps  the  most  important,  pre-N 
occupation  of  the  modern  scenic  artist  is  to  devise 
a  set  within  which  the  natural  grouping  of  the 
actors  at  every  moment  of  the  play  will  arrange 
itself  in  conformity  with  the  laws  of  pictorial  com- 
position. The  leading  lines  of  the  stage  picture 
should  converge  on  certain  points  which  may  be 
utilized  in  the  most  important  business  of  the  act. 
In  this  exigency,  which  is  similar  to  that  which  is 
submitted  to  by  every  master  of  graphic  composi- 
tion, the  scenic  artist  is  aided  greatly  by  his 
ability  to  effect  a  mechanical  focus  of  light  upon 
any  selected  detail  of  his  stage  picture.  Except 
in  scenes  imagined  to  progress  in  the  full,  un- 
changing light  of  noon,  he  may  emphasize  one 
section  or  another  of  the  stage  by  the  deft  em- 
ployment of  electric  lights.  But,  whenever  this 
recourse  to  mechanics  is  denied  him,  he  may  ac- 
complish his  effect  of  emphasis  by  the  graphic  ex- 
pedient of  converging  lines. 

It  should  be  evident  from  these  notes  that  the 


24  STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

new  art  of  designing  stage  scenery  is  very  intri- 
cate and  difficult,  but  that  it  offers  possibilities  for 
pictorial  appeal  which  as  yet  have  hardly  been 
completely  realized.  The  advantages  of  being 
permitted  to  render  a  picture  in  three  dimensions 
instead  of  one,  and  of  being  allowed  to  alter  the 
lighting  of  the  picture  almost  at  will,  afford  the 
followers  of  the  new  art  obvious  opportunities 
which  are  denied  the  ordinary  painter ;  but  the 
attendant  difficulties  of  the  art  are  great,  because 
of  the  threefold  limitation  to  which  the  scenic 
artist  must  evermore  submit. 


Ill 

THE  DECORATIVE  DRAMA 

Both  in  painting  and  in  sculpture,  the  deco- 
rative artist  labors  under  limitations  more  pre- 
cisely technical  than  those  which  are  imposed  upon 
his  freer  fellow-craftsmen.  A  decorative  paint- 
ing must  fit  the  room  that  it  is  destined  to  adorn ; 
and,  to  this  end,  its  mere  patterning  of  lines  and 
colors  becomes  more  important  than  the  subject 
it  sets  forth.  A  decorative  bit  of  sculpture  must 
be  molded  in  reference  to  the  general  architectural 
design  of  which  it  is  a  mere  detail;  and  it  can- 
not be  judged  by  the  same  standards  that  we  apply 
to  the  appreciation  of  a  statue  modeled  by  and 
for  itself. 

In  the  exercise  of  every  art  there  are  two  steps, 
—  first,  a  selection  of  details  from  nature,  and 
second,  an  arrangement  of  the  details  selected,  in 
accordance  with  a  pattern.  To  the  ordinary 
painter,  the  ordinary  sculptor,  the  first  of  these 
steps  is  the  more  important  of  the  two ;  and  his 
work  will  interest  us  mainly  on  account  of  the 
details  he  has  decided  to  select  from  nature.  But 
to  the  decorative  artist,  the  pattern  is  of  prime 

25 


26  STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

importance:  it  scarcely  matters  what  details  he 
chooses  to  exhibit,  so  long  as  he  arranges  them  in 
accordance  with  a  satisfying  scheme. 

The  ordinary  painting  must  tell  us  something 
about  life :  if  it  be  a  portrait,  it  must  exhibit  the 
painter's  appreciation  of  a  person ;  if  it  be  a 
landscape,  it  must  exhibit  his  appreciation  of  some 
phase  of  out-of-doors ;  but  the  decorative  paint- 
ing may  deal  with  either  cabbages  or  kings,  with- 
out expressing  any  sympathy  with  either,  provided 
that  the  motive  be  developed  in  a  composition  that 
shall  be  harmonious  in  itself  and  appropriate  in 
line  and  color  to  the  room  that  it  completes.  The 
same  distinction  holds  in  sculpture.  If  any  single 
figure  in  that  serried  rank  of  kings  that  is  strung 
across  the  fa9ade  of  Notre  Dame  de  Paris  were 
taken  down  from  its  niche  and  set  up  on  a  ped- 
estal, it  would  look  abnormally  tall  and  slender, 
and  curiously  cramped ;  because,  like  any  ordinary 
statue,  it  would  then  be  set  in  competition  with 
nature.  But,  in  its  proper  place,  the  figure  is  not 
intended  to  compete  with  nature:  it  is  intended 
merely  to  continue,  and  not  disrupt,  a  pattern 
that  covers  the  face  of  an  entire  building. 

It  will  be  seen  that  the  art  of  decoration  is,  of 
all  the  arts,  the  most  removed  from  nature.  It 
is  the  one  art  in  which  the  subject-matter  is  of 
very  small  account  and  the  technical  presentment 
is  of  overwhelming  importance.    An  egg  is  not  an 


I. 


THE  DECORATIVE  DRAMA  27 

interesting  object,  and  neither  is  a  dart;  but  the 
egg-and-dart  molding  that  the  Greeks  developed 
is  so  superbly  decorative  that  it  has  held  its  own, 
against  all  attempts  at  innovation,  throughout 
immemorable  centuries.  In  decoration,  art  is  exer- 
cised solely  for  the  sake  of  art.  The  decorative 
painter  values  lines  and  colors,  the  decorative 
sculptor  values  forms  and  shadows,  utterly  for 
their  own  sakes,  without  particular  reference  to 
the  objects  which  happen  to  furnish  them  to  his 
hand.  But  the  ordinary  painter,  the  ordinary 
sculptor,  works  with  his  eye  upon  the  object:  the 
object  interests  him  in  and  for  itself,  and  he 
marshals  technical  details  merely  to  minister  to  his 
purpose  to  render  the  thing  as  he  sees  it. 

A  good  painting,  a  good  statue,  awakens  us 
to  a  realization  of  life ;  but  a  good  decoration  re- 
lieves us  from  such  a  realization.  Paintings  and 
statues  assert  the  importance  of  nature ;  but  deco- 
rations assert  the  importance  of  art.  The  painter 
and  the  sculptor  ask  us  to  admire  a  subject;  but 
the  decorator  asks  us  to  admire  a  pattern. 

If,  with  this  distinction  in  our  minds,  we  com- 
pare the  contributions  of  Puvis  de  Chavannes  and 
Edwin  A.  Abbey  to  the  walls  of  the  Boston  Public 
Library,  we  shall  see  that  the  Frenchman  excels 
from  the  decorative  standpoint  and  that  the 
American  excels  from  the  pictorial  standpoint.  It 
is  the  merit  of  the  panels  of  Puvis  that  they  melt 


28  STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

into  the  surrounding  marble  and  refuse  to  arrest 
the  transitory  eye  by  reminding  it  of  life.  The 
mild  and  misty  colors,  the  conventional  and  un- 
insistent  outlines,  abstain  from  capturing  atten- 
tion to  the  subjects  that  are  touched  upon;  and 
the  wanderer  comes  away,  remembering  that  he 
has  climbed  a  lovely  stairway  but  forgetting  that 
he  has  paused  to  look  at  pictures.  But  Abbey's 
Tennysonian  narrative  of  the  legend  of  Sir  Gala- 
had attracts  attention  to  itself,  reminds  the  loi- 
terer of  life,  and  makes  him  utterly  forget  that  he 
is  in  a  building.  It  disrupts  the  room  that  it 
was  meant  to  decorate,  by  rendering  the  ob- 
server impatient  of  a  roof.  From  the  technical 
standpoint,  it  spoils  ^.he  room  by  sweeping  it 
away. 

Readers  of  these  pages  do  not  need  to  be  again 
reminded  that  the  drama,  in  this  modern  age,  has 
tended  to  become  more  visual  than  auditory  in  its 
medium  of  appeal,  and  has  allied  itself,  in  recent 
years,  more  with  the  art  of  painting  than  with 
the  art  of  literature.  Ever  since  the  adoption  of 
the  picture-frame  proscenium,  the  prevalent  and 
customary  play  has  been  pictorial.  But  very  re- 
cently it  has  occurred  to  certain  producers  to  go 
a  step  further  and  to  handle  the  drama  not  merely 
as  a  series  of  pictures,  but,  finally,  as  a  series  of 
decorations.  That  interesting,  inconsistent  the- 
orist, Mr.  Gordon  Craig,  is  one  of  the  leaders  of 


THE  DECORATIVE  DRAMA  29 

this  movement;  but  its  most  successful  practical 
exponent  has  been  Professor  Max  Reinhardt  of 
Berlin. 

Professor  Reinhardt  at  the  present  time  [he 
began  his  career  in  conformity  with  other 
theories]  conceives  an  acted  play  as  a  bit  of  deco- 
ration. He  does  not  desire  that  a  drama  should 
offer  a  judgment  or  a  criticism  of  life:  he  desires, 
rather,  that  it  should  offer  a  continuously  se- 
ductive pattern  of  lines  and  colors,  forms  and 
shadows,  to  the  eye.  In  his  present  view,  the 
drama  should  not,  like  a  picture,  compete  with 
nature  by  awakening  the  spectator^  to  a  realiza- 
tion of  life:  it  should,  rather,  like  a  decoration, 
satisfy  the  spectator  by  an  utterly  esthetic  pat- 
terning of  visual  details.  Whereas,  in  recent  years, 
the  majority  of  our  theatric  artists  have  been 
striving  to  return  to  nature.  Professor  Reinhardt 
is  now  endeavoring  to  get  away  from  it.  He 
does  not  ask  us  to  be  interested  primarily  in 
life:  he  asks  us  to  be  interested  primarily  in 
art. 

This  consideration  should  be  borne  in  mind  in 
any  criticism  of  the  pantomime  of  Sumurun, 
which  has  recently  been  represented  in  America. 
This  production  of  Professor  Rcinhardt's  may  be 
taken  as  a  type  of  the  Decorative  Drama;  and  it 
should,  properly,  be  appreciated  by  some  critic 
of  the  decorative  arts  instead  of  by  a  critic  of 


30  STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

the  theatre.  By  divesting  the  drama  of  the 
spoken  word,  Professor  Reinhardt  has  removed  it 
from  the  realm  of  literature  and  bereaved  it  of 
any  reference  to  actuality:  he  has  conceived  it, 
rather,  as  a  continuous  frieze  of  flitting,  ever 
fluctuating,  decorations. 

A  glance  at  any  scene  in  Sumurun  indicated 
that  this  Oriental  panorama  should  be  judged  less 
as  drama  than  as  painting,  and  less  as  painting 
than  as  decoration.  The  stage-pictures  were  ren- 
dered in  that  particular  style  of  secessionistic 
artistry  that  is  popularly  known  in  Germany  as 
the  Jugend-Stil.  It  gets  its  name  from  the  fact 
that,  although  the  original  inspiration  came  from 
Paris,  it  became  most  popular  in  Germany  through 
the  work  of  a  clever  group  of  artists  illustrating 
the  satirical  magazines,  Jugend  and  Simplicissi- 
miis.  They  made  it  an  effective  fashion  for  all 
decorative  purposes.  They  found  that  flat  back- 
grounds, utterly  lacking  in  perspective,  that  strik- 
ing outlines  and  solid  blocks  of  color  [they  fa- 
vored Egyptian  angles  for  the  rendering  of  fig- 
ures], served  particularly  well  for  poster  and 
cartoon  work,  —  for  work,  in  other  words,  in  which 
an  idea  had  to  be  impressed  in  an  instant  on  the 
spectator,  even  in  the  most  careless  glance,  so 
emphatically  that  it  should  remain  for  some  time 
in  his  memory.  This  method  —  a  method  devised, 
in  the  first  instance,  for  the  adornment  of   naga- 


THE  DECORATIVE  DRAMA  31 

zine  covers  —  Professor  Reinhardt  has  adopted 
for  the  uses  of  the  Decorative  Drama. 

He  divests  his  backgrounds  of  perspective  lines, 
and  renders  them  in  monochrome.  In  consequence, 
they  stop  the  eye,  and  fling  into  vivid  relief  the 
costumes  of  the  actors.  These  costumes  are  de- 
signed not  as  dresses,  in  reference  to  life,  but  as 
blocks  of  color,  in  reference  to  art ;  and  the  colors 
are  simple  in  themselves  and  harmonious  with  one 
another.  The  method  of  the  entire  decoration  is 
impressionistic.  It  proceeds  by  the  suppression  of 
details,  and  by  the  arrangement  of  the  very  few 
details  selected,  in  accordance  with  a  pattern  of 
conventional  simplicity.  The  lighting  of  the 
stage  is  emphatically  simple.  In  the  scene  of  the 
Sheik's  bed-chamber,  which  may  be  taken  as  typi- 
cal, there  are  only  two  light-values, — a  lantern 
at  the  head  of  the  stairway,  and  a  streaming  light 
cast  down  funnel-wise  over  the  bed  of  the  Sheik. 
The  most  impressive  scene  of  the  entire  play  is  a 
mere  procession  of  all  the  characters  across  the 
stage,  before  a  blank  wall  of  unobtrusive  gray, 
above  which  is  seen  a  black  palace,  drawn,  without 
perspective,  upon  a  sky  of  slate. 

The  drama  thus  exhibited  as  decoration  tells 
in  pantomime  two  distinct  but  intricately  inter- 
tangled  stories,  accompanied  by  interpretative 
music  patterned,  in  post-Wagnerian  fashion,  out 


32  STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

of  the  intermingling  of  appropriate  "  leading  mo- 
tives." It  is  unnecessary,  in  this  consideration, 
to  summarize  either  of  these  narratives.  Both  of 
them  are  inevitably  violent,  since  they  must  tell 
themselves  immediately  to  the  eye  without  the  aid 
of  words.  The  passion  of  love  must  express  itself 
in  lust,  the  passion  of  revenge  must  express  itself 
in  murder,  the  mood  of  humor  must  express  it- 
self in  physical  buffoonery,  in  a  narrative  that  is 
conceived  as  decoration. 

In  America,  the  subject-matter  of  Sumurun 
seems  to  have  astounded  a  certain  section  of  the 
public  [and  even  a  certain  number  of  the  news- 
paper reviewers]  by  its  absolute  divorce  from  all 
morality.  It  is,  of  course,  unimaginable  that  a 
decoration  should  be  either  moral  or  immoral.  A 
mere  pattern  of  lines  and  colors  suggests  no  log- 
ical association  with  life ;  and  it  is  only  in  the 
sphere  of  life  that  a  distinction  between  morality 
and  immorality  can  have  any  pertinence.  In  life, 
for  instance,  murder  is  indubitably  an  immoral 
occupation ;  but  if  a  decorative  artist,  desiring 
merely  a  splash  of  red  to  complete  a  color-com- 
position, should  choose  to  represent  a  murdered 
man  dripping  the  harmless  necessary  pool  of 
blood,  it  would  be  illogical  to  accuse  him  of  im- 
morality. Such  an  art  as  decoration,  which  has 
nothing  to  do  with  life,  must  not  be  judged  in 
terms    of   life;   and   Sumurun,    though   lust   and 


THE  DECORATWE  DRAMA  33 

murder  run  rampant  through  its  decorative  nar- 
rative, is  no  more  immoral  than  the  egg-and-dart 
molding  that  adorns  the  buildings  of  the  world. 
To  conceive  such  decoration  as  immoral  is  to  con- 
fess a  lack  of  culture. 


IV 

THE  DRAMA  OF  ILLUSION 

It  is  proverbial  that  the  average  person  will 
believe  the  evidence  of  his  eyes  more  readily  than 
the  evidence  of  his  ears.  Beneath  that  sage  and 
cogent  phrase  of  current  slang,  "  You'll  have  to 
show  me,"  there  lurks  indeed  a  psychologic  law. 
A  man  may  doubt  what  you  have  merely  told  him ; 
but  he  is  much  less  likely  to  doubt  what  he  him- 
self has  seen.  For  this  reason,  those  arts  which 
make  their  appeal  to  the  eye,  like  painting  and 
sculpture,  are  more  convincing  to  the  average 
person  than  those  which  make  their  appeal  to  the 
ear,  like  poetry  and  music.  If  I  say,  in  terms  of 
the  ungraphic  art  of  prose,  "  I  have  seen  the  most 
beautiful  woman  in  the  world;  she  is,  indeed,  the 
perfect  woman,"  —  even  if  I  ascend  upon  the 
wings  of  words  and  call  her,  with  the  eloquence  of 
Alfred  Noyes,  the  "  white  culmination  of  the 
dreams  of  earth,"  —  I  shall  leave  the  average 
reader  cold ;  but  if  I  could  lead  the  reader  to 
that  tiny  room  in  Paris  where  the  armless, 
radiant  wonder  leans  a  little  backward  through 
the    air,    and    looks    forth,    illimitably    serene, 

S4 


THE  DRAMA  OF  ILLUSION  35 

over  the  heads  of  the  noisy  and  nervous  visitors 
that  swarm  around,  all  impotent  to  interrupt  her 
utter  and  divine  quiescence,  the  reader  would  in- 
deed believe  me,  —  conquered  beyond  question  by 
the  evidence  of  his  eyes. 

The  drama  is  a  compound  art,  in  that  it  appeals 
simultaneously  to  the  eye  and  to  the  ear:  it  is  at 
once  an  auditory  art,  like  poetry  and  music,  and 
a  visual  art,  like  painting  and  sculpture.  But, 
in  different  ages  of  the  drama,  the  proportion  to 
each  other  of  these  two  appeals  —  the  auditory 
and  the  visual  —  has  been  adjusted  variously.  If 
we  review,  with  a  single  sudden  sweep  of  mind, 
the  whole  history  of  the  dramatic  art,  we  shall  see 
that  the  drama  began  by  being  principally  audi- 
tory, and  that  it  has  grown  more  and  more  visual 
from  age  to  age,  until  to-day,  for  the  first  time,  it 
makes  its  appeal  mainly  to  the  eye.  Beneath  this 
evolution  we  shall  notice,  as  its  motive,  a  con- 
stant and  continual  striving  of  the  drama  for 
more  absolute,  unquestionable  credence.  ^Eschylus 
was  striving  to  make  you  credit  what  he  told  you : 
Pinero  is  striving  to  make  you  credit  what  you  see. 
The  latter  task,  as  we  already  have  observed,  is 
psychologically  simpler;  and  therefore  it  is  evi- 
dent that  the  drama  has  gained  conviction  by  the 
change. 

There  is  a  certain  profit  in  speculating  as  to 
whether,  in  attending  the  performance  of  a  typical 


36  STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

play  of  any  chosen  epoch,  it  would  have  been 
more  or  less  disadvantageous  to  be  blind  or  to  be 
deaf.  For  instance,  it  becomes  evident  that  a 
blind  person  would  have  lost  comparatively  little 
in  the  theatre  of  Dionysus  but  would  lose  com- 
paratively much  in  the  Belasco  Theatre ;  whereas 
a  deaf  person  would  be  able  to  follow  the  per- 
formance of  The  Return  of  Peter  Grimm,  but 
would  not  have  been  able  to  follow  the  perform- 
ance of  CEdipus  King.  Owing  to  the  conditions 
of  its  representment,  the  Greek  drama  was  re- 
quired to  rely  principally  on  its  appeal  to  the  ear. 
In  a  theatre  so  open  and  so  spacious  there  could 
be  no  facial  expression,  no  intimate  and  delicate 
gesticulation.  The  movements  of  the  three  actors 
were  necessarily  conventional  and  sculpturesque ; 
the  evolutions  of  the  chorus  were  necessarily  for- 
mal and  measured.  Conviction  had  to  be  con- 
veyed by  eloquence  of  speech,  in  poetry  large  and 
luminous  and  overwhelming;  and  an  author,  to 
succeed  as  a  dramatist,  had  to  be  a  master  of  sea- 
surgings  in  the  medium  of  verse.  The  great 
Elizabethan  drama,  as  represented  to  us  in  the 
works  of  Shakespeare,  thrilled  and  trembled  at 
the  parting  of  the  ways.  It  was  a  drama  devoid 
of  any  particularity  of  visual  appeal,  set  with- 
out scenery  on  a  bare  platform,  and  plaj-ed  by 
actors  surrounded  on  three  sides  by  a  public  prac- 
tised more  in  listening  than  in  looking.     Yet  it  is 


THE  DRAMA  OF  ILLUSION  37 

evident  that  Shakespeare,  more  than  any  of  his 
fellows,  felt  keenly  the  influence  of  time  and 
place  on  character  and  action ;  for,  unlike  the 
Greeks,  he  strove  continually  to  make  his  auditors 
see  —  with  that  subtle  sense  that  Hamlet  called 
the  "  mind's  eye  "  —  the  particular  environment  of 
place  and  time  in  which  his  action  was  imagined  to 
occur.  Since  his  theatre  was  not  equipped  to 
present  this  environment  directly  to  the  eye,  he 
was  required  to  force  his  auditors  to  imagine  it  by 
hurling  into  their  ears  descriptive  passages  so 
potent  in  visual  suggestion  as  to  require  them  to 
seem  to  see  what,  actually,  they  had  only  heard. 
What  Shakespeare  chiefly  stood  in  need  of  —  if 
we  consider  him,  for  the  moment,  solely  as  what 
we  now  call  a  "producer"  of  plays — was  a 
direct,  unmetaphorical  medium  for  the  expression 
of  his  visual  imagination. 

Such  a  medium  is  off^ered  by  the  modern  stage; 
and  the  invention  of  this  medium  has  had,  thus 
far,  two  diff'erent  results. 

Late  in  the  nineteenth  century,  the  newly  de- 
vised equipment  of  the  theatre  to  represent  the 
look  of  actuality  contributed,  for  the  moment,  to 
the  spread  of  realism  in  the  drama.  Realism  had 
already  long  been  rampant  in  the  other  arts  of 
narrative,  and  now  it  was  at  last  enabled  to 
broaden  its  dominion  to  include  the  stage.  The 
drama  was  immediately  dominated  by  a  zest  for 


38  STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

imitating  actuality:  it  strove  to  represent  the 
very  look  of  life,  and  to  force  the  spectator  to 
induce  that  desirable  and  necessary  sense  of  truth 
which  is  the  end  of  art,  from  the  contemplation 
of  a  selected  and  arranged  assortment  of  familiar 
facts.  But  very  recently  the  drama,  weary  at  last 
of  imitating  actuality,  has  begun  to  strive  to  use 
the  modern  mechanical  medium  of  concreteness  to 
convey  ideas  essentially  abstract,  and  is  trying  at 
last  to  employ  the  modern  mastery  of  visual  sug- 
gestion to  convey  a  sense  of  the  invisible.  Ten 
or  twenty  years  ago,  our  playwrights  strove  only 
to  make  their  spectators  believe  what  they  saw 
before  them  on  the  stage :  but  now  our  playwrights 
strive,  by  visual  suggestion,  to  make  their  spec- 
tators imagine  much  more  than  what  they  actually 
see.  Paradoxical  as  it  might  seem  to  a  merely 
aloof  and  theoretic  contemplation,  the  mechanical 
and  concrete  particularity  of  the  contemporary 
stage  has  begun  to  minister  to  the  rise  of  a  new 
mysticism  in  the  drama,  —  a  mysticism  which,  for 
the  present,  finds  its  fullest  expression  in  that 
morning-star  of  the  new  era  of  romance  and 
poetry  which  seems  destined  soon  to  overwhelm 
the  drama,  —  the  elusive  and  imaginative  Maeter- 
linck. In  Sister  Beatrice,  for  instance,  M.  Maeter- 
linck, being  an  author  of  this  present  age,  relies 
frankly  on  the  harmonious  collaboration  of  the 
designer    of    scenery    and    costumes,    the    stage- 


THE  DRAMA  OF  ILLUSION  39 

director,  and  (most  of  all)  the  electrician  of  the 
theatre,  for  the  complete  conveyance  of  his 
imagined  and  designed  effect:  but,  by  means  of 
all  these  marshaled  media  for  visual  suggestion, 
he  contrives  to  lure  the  spectator  airily  aloft  to 
a  region  where  he  wings  his  way  among  in- 
visibilities. 

'  We  may  regard  it  as  the  ultimate  and  utter 
/  triumph  of  the  Drama  of  Illusion  that,  precisely 
because  its  medium  of  expression  is  more  concrete, 
it  is  better  endowed  than  the  drama  of  any  other 
age  to  symbolize  ideas  that  are  essentially  ab- 
stract. By  mastering  the  means  of  visual  rep- 
resentment,  the  drama  has  learned  at  last  to  em- 
body, vividly  and  convincingly,  a  sense  of  the 
invisible.  This  is  an  artistic  triumph  that  was 
difficult  for  Sophocles  and  Shakespeare,  but  which 

—  owing  to  the  physical  evolution  of  the  theatre 

—  is  comparatively  easy  for  M.  Maeterlinck. 
Granted  the  great  advantage  of  the  mechanical 
equipment  of  the  modern  stage,  a  man  of  com- 
paratively small  imagination  may  make  the  public 
see  more,  and  in  consequence  believe  more,  than 
many  a  giant  of  imagination  in  an  age  of  the 
merely  auditory  drama.  No  one,  for  example, 
would  believe  the  story  of  The  Return  of  Peter 
Grimm  if  you  merely  told  it  to  him,  even  if  you 
told  it  in  language  as  eloquent  as  that  of  Soph- 
ocles   or    Shakespeare;    but    Mr.    David    Belasco 


40  STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

easily  compels  from  his  spectators  an  artistic 
credence  of  his  play  —  during  the  brief  period, 
at  least,  while  they  are  watching  it  —  by  the 
mechanical,  but  none  the  less  enthralling,  expe- 
dient of  forcing  them  to  believe  the  evidence  of 
their  eyes. 

Considered  as  a  literary  composition.  The 
Return  of  Peter  Grimm  does  not  offer  any  notable 
elucidation  of  life,  nor  does  it  even  embody  an 
especially  imaginative  searching  of  the  mystery 
of  death ;  but  considered  as  a  fabric  for  the  the- 
atre, it  offers  a  very  remarkable  instance  of  the 
technical  triumph  of  the  Drama  of  Illusion, — the 
most  remarkable,  in  fact,  that  has  been  set  before 
our  eyes  in  recent  years.  It  conveys  with  absolute 
concreteness  an  idea  that  is  essentially  abstract; 
and  it  succeeds,  by  a  mastery  of  visualization,  in 
convincing  the  spectator  that  he  is  seeing  the 
invisible. 

The  play  is  designed  to  embody  that  spiritistic 
theory  of  the  persistence  of  personal  energy  after 
death  which,  in  recent  years,  has  been  deemed 
worthy  of  thorough  scientific  investigation  by  the 
Society  for  Psychical  Research.  According  to 
this  theory,  the  liberated  soul  retains  its  human 
individuality,  and,  hovering  regretfully  about  the 
scenes  of  its  foregone  activities  on  earth,  strives 
to  communicate,  through  the  entranced  minds  of 
spiritistic  mediums,  with  its  former  relatives  and 


THE  DRAMA  OF  ILLUSION  41 

friends.  The  accumulated  scientific  evidence  in 
support  of  this  hypothesis,  in  spite  of  its  vasty 
bulk,  is  utterly  unsatisfactory ;  and  looked  at  a 
priori,  the  theory  seems  extremely  unimaginative. 
The  maintenance  of  human  individuality  after 
bodily  death  has  never  yet  been  proved  in  all  the 
centuries  of  searching,  even  though  it  has  been 
assumed  as  an  axiom  in  many  of  the  great  re- 
ligions of  the  world ;  but  even  if  we  accept  it  as  a 
fact,  it  would  be  pitifully  unimaginative  to  assume 
that  a  soul  set  free  by  death  to  range  the  bound- 
less universe  should  still  be  tethered  to  that  twirl- 
ing inconsiderable  grain  of  dust  we  call  our 
world,  —  that  a  soul  at  last  enfranchised  to  illimi- 
table possibilities  of  experience  should  find  no 
loftier  application  for  its  energies  than  to  try  to 
talk  in  human  terms,  about  temporal  trivialities, 
with  souls  still  body-bound  and  anchored  to  the 
earth. 

This  is  neither  the  time  nor  the  place  for  a 
detailed  philosophic  argument  against  the  spirit- 
istic theory ;  and  my  present  purpose  is  merely  to 
indicate  that  the  thesis  which  Mr.  Belasco  has 
selected  as  the  basis  of  his  play,  —  though  it  seems 
to  appeal  to  many  minds  at  present  and  is  often 
popularly  dallied  with,  —  is  by  no  means  easy  to 
believe.  All  the  more  remarkable,  therefore,  as  a 
technical  triumph  of  the  Drama  of  Illusion,  is  the 
fact  that  Mr.  Belasco  succeeds  in  compelling  an 


42  STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

artistic  acceptance  of  the  thesis  throughout  the 
presentation  of  his  play.  And  there  is  no  deny- 
ing that  he  does  succeed.  Mainly  by  his  mastery 
of  the  subtle  art  of  lighting,  he  lays  siege  to  the 
emotions  of  the  spectator  and  conquers  credence 
for  his  story.  The  eye  is  captivated  by  an  over- 
whelming visual  illusion.  At  no  previous  period 
in  the  history  of  the  drama  could  such  a  play  have 
been  successfully  produced;  and  it  deserves  to  be 
studied  as  a  signal  triumph  of  the  modern  visual 
art  of  stage-direction. 


V 

THE  MODERN  ART  OF  STAGE-DIRECTION 


The  acted  drama  is  a  compound  work  of  art, 
exhibiting  a  coordination  of  the  labors  of  several 
different  artists,  each  of  whom  employs  his  own 
distinct  medium  of  expression.  Thus,  in  this 
multifarious  modern  age,  a  single  acted  play  may 
call  into  conjunction  the  diverse  arts  of  writing, 
acting,  dancing,  painting,  sculpture,  decoration, 
music,  and  illustrative  illumination ;  and  the  artist 
who  supplies  any  of  these  separate  elements  to 
the  general  and  finished  fabric  may  be  ignorant 
of  the  methods  of  his  fellow-laborers.  No  one 
man,  unaided,  can  accomplish  the  entire  work ;  and 
yet,  if  the  final  product  is  to  be  worthy  of  the 
name  of  art,  some  individual  among  these  many 
and  diverse  collaborators  must  be  singled  out  and 
made  finally  responsible  for  the  appeal  of  the 
acted  drama  as  a  whole. 

The  drama  has  altered  its  complexion  from  age 
to  age,  according  as  one  or  another  of  these  asso- 
ciated artists  has  been  set  in  supreme  command, 

43 


44  STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

to  the  subordination  of  his  fellow-craftsmen.  Un- 
til the  present  age,  the  captaincy  has  always 
fallen  either  to  the  author  or  to  the  actor,  and  the 
other  artists  have  always  been  subservient  to 
these.  In  reviewing  the  history  of  the  drama  from 
the  earliest  times  until  our  own,  we  might  easily 
divide  it  into  literary  periods  and  histrionic 
periods,  according  as  the  author  or  the  actor  has, 
for  the  moment,  assumed  dominion  over  it.  A 
curious  and  interesting  point  is  that  the  periods 
of  great  authors  and  the  periods  of  great  actors 
have  never  coincided.  Whenever  the  artist  of 
one  type  has  been  supreme,  the  artist  of  the  other 
type  has  been  (necessarily,  it  would  seem  in  retro- 
spect) merely  a  contributory  functionary. 

History,  which  has  engraved  on  granite  the 
names  of  the  authors  of  the  great  Greek  tragedies, 
has  told  us  next  to  nothing  of  their  actors.  The 
two  actors  employed  by  iEschylus,  the  three  em- 
ployed by  Sophocles,  were  granted  very  little  op- 
portunity for  the  exploitation  of  themselves. 
Their  masks  robbed  them  of  the  personal  appeal 
of  facial  expression ;  their  stilted  boots  inhibited 
any  movements  except  those  which  were  conven- 
tionally plastic;  and  all  that  was  left  to  them  was 
to  give  voice  to  the  commentary  of  the  poet  on  a 
national  and  familiar  fable.  The  evolutions  of 
the  chorus  must  have  offered  scope  for  the  contri- 
butions of  a  master  of  the  allied  arts  of  sculpture 


MODERN  ART  OF  STAGE-DIRECTION    45 

and  the  dance ;  but  the  primary  and  all-important 
appeal  of  the  drama  was  invested  in  the  lines.  If 
the  verse  were  spoken  audibly  and  read  with  dig- 
nity, the  play  would  have  its  chance;  and  its  suc- 
cess or  failure  depended  almost  solely  on  the  prow- 
ess of  the  author.  Sophocles  and  Euripides  could 
win  prizes  by  themselves,  without  any  indispen- 
sable assistance  from  a  collaborating  actor. 

Again,  in  the  Elizabethan  period,  the  appeal  of 
the  acted  drama  depended  mainly  on  the  author. 
History  has  recorded  reverently  the  names  of  in- 
numerable writers  of  that  spacious  age,  but  has 
deleted  from  recollection  the  names  of  all  but  the 
very  foremost  actors.  Alleyn  and  Burbage  are 
remembered ;  but,  with  the  fullest  data  bequeathed 
to  us  by  contemporary  commentators,  it  is  impos- 
sible for  us  to  publish  the  entire  cast  of  any  play 
of  Shakespeare's.  The  reason  is  that,  in  the 
Elizabethan  period,  the  lines  themselves  were  im- 
measurably more  important  than  any  speaker  of 
them,  and  the  actor  was  regarded  only  as  a  sec- 
ondary, and  comparatively  unimportant,  artist. 

But  when,  a  little  later  in  history,  we  turn  our 
attention  to  the  records  of  great  actors,  we  per- 
ceive (with  a  little  wonderment  at  first)  that  they 
have  flourished  only  in  periods  when  dramatic 
authorship  has  been  at  a  very  low  ebb.  Betterton 
is  the  first  great  tragic  actor  of  whom  we  read 
in  the  records  of  the  English  stage ;  and  he  ruled 


46  STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

the  theatre  at  a  time  when  (if  we  except  the  two 
masterpieces  of  Otwaj)  the  authorship  of  tragedy 
had  sunk  beneath  contempt.  Garrick,  the  great- 
est actor  that  the  English  stage  remembers,  flour- 
ished in  an  age  when  tragedy  was  absolutely  sterile 
and  when  comedy  had  paused  to  catch  its  breath 
in  mid-transition  from  Congreve  to  Sheridan.  He 
played  King  Lear  with  a  fabricated  happy  ending, 
and  made  his  last  appearance  on  the  stage  in  a 
comedy  by  the  now  forgotten  Mrs.  Centlivre. 
Later,  when  Sheridan  begins  to  write,  we  hear  a 
great  deal  of  him  and  very  little  of  his  actors ;  and 
still  later,  in  the  early  nineteenth  century,  when 
dramatic  authorship  dived  downward  to  the  low- 
est point  that  it  has  ever  touched  in  England,  we 
observe  (in  reminiscence)  a  great  galaxy  of  ac- 
tors, —  Kean,  and  the  Kembles,  and  Mrs.  Siddons, 
and  Macready. 

The  obvious  deduction  from  this  summary  his- 
torical review  appears  to  be  that  the  theatre- 
going  public  will  pay  its  money  for  only  one  thing 
at  a  time,  —  either  to  hear  what  an  author  has 
to  say,  or  to  see  an  actor  act ;  and  that  it  has 
never  supported  the  theatre  to  receive  both  of 
these  distinct  impressions  simultaneously  and 
equally.  Thus,  in  a  retrospective  view  of  history, 
we  perceive  a  subsistent  antagonism  between  the 
author  and  the  actor  which  has  always  been  con- 
trary to  the  highest  theory  of  the  acted  drama. 


MODERN  ART  OF  STAGE-DIRECTION    47 

This  unfortunate  antagonism  may  be  observed, 
at  nearer  view,  in  the  records  of  the  nineteenth 
century.  Throughout  the  first  three-quarters  of 
that  most  recent  of  completed  cycles,  the  actor 
reigned  supreme;  but  (somewhat  suddenly)  in  the 
last  quarter,  he  resigned  his  supremacy  to  some 
other  of  his  collaborative  artists.  The  period 
that  the  veteran  critic,  Mr.  William  Winter,  re- 
members with  such  pathetic  eloquence  in  his  back- 
ward-looking books  was  a  period  of  memorable 
actors;  and  this  (according  to  our  logic)  is  only 
another  way  of  saying  that,  at  that  time,  there 
were  no  authors  of  any  consequence.  The  public 
was  equally  interested  in  the  art  of  Edwin  Booth, 
whether  he  was  presenting  a  supreme  play  like 
Othello  or  a  rhetorical  and  imitative  play  like 
Richelieu,  whether  he  was  acting  a  great  part  like 
Hamlet  or  an  artificial  part  like  Bertuccio. 
Shakespeare,  Bulwer-Lytton,  Tom  Taylor,  looked 
alike  to  the  admirers  of  this  matchless  actor.  But, 
in  studying  a  later  and  more  literary  age,  we  re- 
read The  Second  Mrs.  Tanqueray  and  forget 
Mrs.  Patrick  Campbell,  and  we  perceive  that  Mrs. 
Doners  Defence  is  a  very  well-made  play  without 
recalling  that  Miss  Lena  Ashwell  is  an  artificial 
actress. 

The  most  recent ,  shift  of  emphasis  from  the 
drama  of  the  actor  to  the  drama  of  the  author  has 
occurred  within  the  recollection  of  theatre-goers 


48  STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

only  thirty  years  of  age ;  and  the  greatest  British 
actor  and  the  greatest  American  actor  of  recent 
times  belonged  to  the  age  that  now  is  past  and 
finished,  instead  of  to  the  age  that  now  seems 
blossoming,  around  us.  There  can  scarcely  be  a 
doubt  that  Sir  Henry  Irving  and  Mr.  Richard 
Mansfield  were  the  greatest  actors  of  recent  times 
in  England  and  America ;  and  yet  neither  of  them 
did  anything  at  all  to  further  what  Mr.  Henry 
Arthur  Jones  has  aptly  termed  the  "  Renascence 
of  the  English  Drama  "  in  our  days.  They  made 
their  great  successes,  for  the  most  part,  in  incon- 
siderable plays,  like  The  Bells  and  Dr.  Jekyll  and 
Mr.  Hyde.  Irving  never  presented  a  play  by 
Pinero  or  Jones,  —  the  foremost  authors  among 
his  contemporary  countrymen ;  and  Mansfield 
never  presented  a  play  by  any  considerable  Ameri- 
can author,  —  if  we  except  Beau  Brummel,  by  the 
youthful  Clyde  Fitch,  a  piece  in  which  its  author's 
special  gifts  could  scarcely  be  made  manifest. 
Irving  rejected  Michael  and  His  Lost  Angel  (by 
far  the  greatest  play  that  Mr.  Jones  has  written, 
and  one  of  the  best  plays  of  this  modern  age),  al- 
though it  contained  two  admirable  parts  precisely 
suited  to  himself  and  to  Miss  Terry,  —  for  the 
reason,  apparently,  that  he  could  endure,  in  his 
immediate  vicinity,  no  playwright  who  really 
counted  as  an  author.  Mansfield  followed  out  a 
similar    career,  —  giving  great   performances   in 


MODERN  ART  OF  STAGE-DIRECTION    49 

bad   plays   by   secondary    writers,   and   centering 
attention  always  on  himself. 

But,  most  recently  of  all,  the  drama  has  talcen 
a  new  turning,  as  a  result  of  which  the  prime 
responsibility  is  shouldered  no  longer  either  on 
the  actor  or  on  the  author,  but  on  a  new  and 
very  interesting  functionary,  —  the  stage-director. 
This  functionary,  who  has  appeared  only  lately  in 
the  history  of  the  theatre,  has  already,  in  many 
instances,  assumed  dominion  over  both  the  author 
and  the  actor,  and  bids  fair,  in  the  age  that  is 
immediately  to  come,  to  be  the  supreme  leader  of 
the  acted  drama.  To  this  new  artist  —  the  stage- 
director  —  and  to  his  special  art,  we  must  there- 
fore devote  particular  attention  in  the  present 
context. 


n 

The  importance  of  the  stage-director  in  the 
drama  of  to-day  is  rarely  appreciated  by  the  un- 
initiated theatre-goer.  The  actor  appeals  imme- 
diately to  the  eyes  of  the  public,  the  author  ap- 
peals immediately  to  their  ears ;  but  the  stage- 
director,  whose  work  has  been  completed  in  the 
period  of  rehearsal,  is  never  seen  in  the  theatre, 
and  seldom  even  talked  about,  after  his  finished 
fabric  has  been  offered  to  the  audience.  Yet 
nearly  all  that  is  shown  upon  the  stage  is   the 


50  STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

result  of  his  selection  and  arrangement,  and  the 
credit  for  a  satisfactory  performance  is  often  due 
less  to  the  actors  than  to  him. 

It  is  the  business  of  the  stage-director  to  co- 
ordinate the  work  of  the  author,  the  actors,  the 
pictorial  artists  who  design  the  scenery  and  cos- 
tumes, the  electrician,  the  musicians,  into  a  single 
and  self-consistent  whole.  He  decides  upon  the 
setting  and  the  lighting  of  each  act,  selects  and 
arranges  the  furniture  and  properties,  and  works 
out  what  is  called  the  "  business  "  of  the  play. 
He  rehearses  the  associated  actors,  and  patterns 
their  individual  contributions  into  a  balanced  and 
harmonious  performance. 

His  work  is  analogous  to  that  of  the  conductor 
of  a  modern  orchestra,  —  who,  although  he  plays 
no  instrument  himself,  coordinates  the  contribu- 
tions of  a  hundred  individual  performers  into  an 
artistic  whole,  regulating  the  tempo  and  com- 
manding every  variation  in  the  emphasis.  Or 
perhaps  we  may  call  attention  to  a  still  closer 
analogy  that  exists  between  the  stage-director 
and  the  manager  of  a  professional  baseball  team. 
It  is  a  well-known  fact  that  baseball  pennants  are 
won  not  so  much  because  of  the  prowess  of  in- 
dividual players  as  because  of  the  crafty  handling 
of  a  team  by  the  directing  manager. 

In  some  instances  the  manager  of  a  baseball 
team  may  be  himself  one  of  the  participants  in  the 


MODERN  ART  OF  STAGE-DIRECTION   51 

game;  in  other  instances  he  may  be  an  ex-player, 
who  has  retired  from  actual  exercise ;  or  he  may  be 
a  student  of  the  game  who  was  never  noted  as  a 
player  on  his  own  account.  To  return  to  our 
analogy  —  the  stage-director  may  be  the  author 
of  the  play,  as  in  the  case  of  Sir  Arthur  Pinero 
or  the  late  Clyde  Fitch;  he  may  be  the  leading 
actor,  as  in  the  case  of  Sir  Henry  Irving  or  Mrs. 
Fiske;  he  may  be  both  of  these,  as  in  the  case  of 
Mr.  Granville  Barker;  he  may  be  a  retired  actor, 
like  Mr.  Henry  Miller  when  he  produces  a  piece 
in  which  he  plays  no  part ;  or  he  may  be  some 
student  of  the  stage  who  is  not  known  to  the  pub- 
lic as  an  individual  performer,  like  Mr.  Geor^ 
Foster  Piatt.  The  ideal  situation  is  indubitably 
that  in  which  the  functions  of  author,  leading 
actor,  and  stage-director  are  combined  in  one  per- 
son, as  in  the  classic  case  of  Moliere  or  in  the 
modern  instance  of  Mr.  William  Gillette;  for  the 
greater  the  measure  of  the  compound  imagining 
that  is  concentrated  in  a  single  mind,  the  greater 
the  likelihood  of  a  harmonious  result.  But  in 
cases  where  the  labor  is  divided  among  different 
people,  the  final  and  supreme  responsibility,  in  the 
contemporary  theatre,  is  vested  in  the  stage- 
director.  At  the  present  time,  the  actor  and  the 
author  can  escape  the  domination  of  the  stage- 
director  only  by  assuming  his  special  functions 
in  addition  to  their  own. 


52  STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

Thus,  though  in  reviewing  the  history  of 
former  ages  we  may  divide  it  into  periods  of  the 
author's  dominance,  and  periods  of  the  actor's 
dominance,  we  must  define  the  present  age  as  a 
period  of  the  dominance  of  the  stage-director. 
This  all-important  functionary  has  only  recently 
been  evolved,  to  cope  with  the  complexity  of  our 
modern  Drama  of  Illusion.  We  are  told  by  his- 
torians of  music  that  in  the  seventeenth  century 
there  was  no  such  thing  as  a  conductor  for  an 
orchestra:  one  of  the  associated  players,  while 
performing  on  an  instrument  himself,  merely  set 
the  tempo  for  his  fellow-artists.  Similarly,  in  the 
early  history  of  baseball,  the  conduct  of  games 
depended  almost  entirely  on  the  physical  skill  of 
individual  contestants :  it  was  only  later  in  the 
evolution  of  the  sport  that  such  managerial  ex- 
pedients as  the  sacrifice  hit,  the  hit  and  run,  the 
squeeze  play,  and  the  double  steal,  came  to  be 
ordered,  by  hidden  signals,  from  the  bench.  The 
problem  of  the  contemporary  theatre,  for  the  first 
time  in  the  history  of  the  drama,  is  a  problem  of 
team-play,  in  which  the  contributions  of  the  in- 
dividual artists  must  be  studiously  subordinated  to 
the  directing  will  of  a  manager,  or  conductor,  of 
the  stage. 

In  their  own  periods  people  went  to  hear 
Shakespeare  or  went  to  see  Garrick ;  and  neither 
at  the  Globe  Theatre  nor  at  Drury  Lane  was  a 


MODERN  ART  OF  STAGE-DIRECTION    53 

stage-director  thought  of.  But  in  New  York,  at 
the  present  day,  people  often  flock  to  the  theatre, 
not  so  much  to  listen  to  the  author  or  to  observe 
the  actors,  as  to  enjoy  (to  single  out  our  most 
emphatic  instance)  the  stage-direction  of  Mr. 
David  Belasco,  —  who  rarely  writes  any  of  his 
plays  and  never  acts  in  them. 


in 

It  is  not  surprising  that  the  history  of  stage- 
direction  in  the  last  thirty  years  has  been  the 
history  of  a  return  to  nature.  Never  before  has 
the  theatre  approached  our  present-day  success  in 
holding  up  the  mirror  to  contemporary  life.  The 
plays  of  Mr.  Granville  Barker,  who  stage-directs 
his  own  productions  as  author  and  as  actor,  re- 
flect the  very  look  of  daily  life;  and  it  seems  safe 
to  assert  that  the  modern  art  of  stage-direction 
has  carried  realism  to  its  ultimate  achievement  in 
the  art  of  drama. 

Let  us  admit  this  as  the  special  triumph  of  the 
last  thirty  years  of  the  theatre.  But  the  very 
merits  of  our  realistic  stage-direction  at  its  best 
carry  with  them  certain  concomitant  defects.  Our 
pursuit  of  actuality  has  lured  us  aloof  from  that 
eternal  race  wherein  the  greatest  athletes  among 
artists  pass  onward,  in  relays,  the  torch  of  truth. 
Our  eagerness  to  record  the  temporary  fact  has 


54.  STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

blinded  us  a  little  to  the  vision  of  the  perennial, 
recurrent  generality.  We  set  forth  plays  that 
have  the  very  look  of  here  and  now,  instead  of  re- 
vealing intimations  of  immortality. 

The  most  obvious  errors  of  the  realistic  art  of 
stage-direction  (and  each  of  these,  of  course,  is 
closely  related  to  a  merit  and  a  triumph)  are 
three  in  number.  First,  by  its  insistence  on  de- 
tails, it  disperses  and  distracts  the  attention  of 
the  audience ;  secondly,  it  imposes  an  unnecessary 
and  unfortunate  expense  upon  the  business-man- 
ager of  the  production ;  and  thirdly,  it  is,  in  the 
highest  sense,  inartistic,  because  it  is  unimagina- 
tive. Each  of  these  objections  may  be  illustrated 
in  detail. 

Our  stage-direction  is  meritorious  mainly  be- 
cause of  the  carefulness  and  thoroughness  with 
which  we  reproduce  the  facts  of  nature;  and  it  is 
erroneous  mainly  because  of  our  too  sedulous  in- 
sistence on  details.  Mr.  David  Belasco  may  be 
selected,  in  America,  as  an  exponent  of  the  current 
art  of  stage-direction  at  its  best.  It  takes  him 
nearly  two  years  to  work  up  the  scenical  investi- 
ture of  each  of  his  productions ;  and,  when  at  last 
he  lifts  his  curtain,  he  lifts  it  on  a  glimpse  of  life. 
His  only  error  is  a  tendency  to  diseconomize  at- 
tention by  forcing  the  spectator  to  look  at  several 
hundred  interesting  details,  instead  of  summariz- 
ing these  details  in  an  impressionistic  picture  that 


MODERN  ART  OF  STAGE-DIRECTION    55 

should  suggest  at  once,  and  in  a  single  glance,  the 
mood  of  the  action  that  is  to  be  exhibited.  The 
one  room  in  which  the  entire  story  of  The  Return 
of  Peter  Grimm  is  unfolded  is  extremely  beautiful 
and  aptly  suited  to  the  story ;  but  the  setting  is 
too  crowded  with  details,  and  the  effect  of  the 
narrative  would  be  made  more  simple,  and  there- 
fore more  emphatic,  if  half  a  hundred  interesting 
objects  were  deleted  from  the  picture.  When,  for 
instance,  an  entrance  door  [right  forward]  is 
opened  to  admit  an  actor,  it  reveals  a  vista  of  a 
fully  furnished  dining-room  [off-stage]  that  is 
decorated  with  innumerable  objects  that  attract 
the  eye.  Hence  the  attention  of  the  spectator  en- 
ters the  dining-room  at  once,  and  stays  there,  even 
though  some  necessary  business  of  the  play  is 
being  enacted  in  the  main  room  on  the  stage. 

Our  present  avidity  for  the  agglomeration  of 
innumerable  accurate  details  has  increased,  beyond 
any  reasonable  necessity,  the  expense  of  the 
average  theatrical  production ;  and  this  is  a  very 
unfortunate  thing  for  the  art  of  the  drama,  be- 
cause it  tends  to  make  our  managers  more  tremu- 
lous in  considering  the  possible  production  of  a 
meritorious  work  that  may  not  appeal  to  great 
numbers  of  the  public.  A  few  years  ago,  Mr. 
George  C.  Tyler  published  a  magazine  article  in 
which  he  complained  that,  whereas  in  1897  the 
public  was  satisfied  with  a  production  that  cost 


56  STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

only  one  thousand  dollars,  it  demanded  in  1911  a 
production  that  cost  seventy-five  thousand  dollars, 
— a  new  insistence  that  made  the  career  of  the 
producing  manager  exceedingly  precarious  at  the 
present  day.  The  answer  is  that  this  insistence 
has  not  been  made  spontaneously  by  the  theatre- 
going  public,  but  has  been  stimulated  artificially 
by  the  managers  themselves.  The  particular  pro- 
duction that  Mr.  Tyler  had  in  mind,  at  the  time 
he  wrote  this  article,  was  his  own  recent  produc- 
tion of  The  Garden  of  Allah.  At  the  present  date 
it  is  unnecessary  to  insist  that  The  Garden  of 
Allah,  considered  as  a  dramatic  composition,  was 
not  worthy  of  the  expenditure  of  even  a  thousand 
dollars ;  for  all  the  real  camels  and  imported 
Arabs  and  mechanical  sandstorms  in  the  world 
could  not  lift  it  into  living.  In  other  words  —  to 
look  at  the  matter  from  the  standpoint  of  art  — 
Mr.  Tyler  wantonly  wasted  seventy-five  thousand 
dollars  in  working  out,  in  careful  and  complete 
detail,  an  investiture  for  a  dramatic  fabric  that 
was  worthless  in  itself. 

Yet  it  cannot  be  denied  that  the  success  of 
many  genuine  and  worthy  plays  is  jeopardized  by 
the  fact  that,  under  the  conditions  that  exist  at 
present,  it  costs  too  much  to  put  them  on  the 
stage.  In  recent  years  Mr.  Bclasco  has  required 
his  playwrights  to  unfold  their  stories  in  a  single 
set  whenever  possible,  and  at  the  utmost  to  shift 


MODERN  ART  OF  STAGE-DIRECTION    57 

the  scene  of  the  action  only  once.  Thus,  for 
merely  economic  reasons,  he  now  imposes  on  the 
drama  an  observance  of  the  so-called  Unity  of 
Place,  which  the  efforts  of  the  best  practitioners 
of  other  ages  have  proved  to  be  an  undesirable 
ideal. 

It  is  obvious  that,  if  the  art  of  the  drama  is  to 
be  allowed  to  develop  freely,  our  stage-directors 
must  devise  some  method  of  decreasing  the  ex- 
pense of  the  average  production.  And  evidently 
the  only  thing  that  can  be  done  is  to  lessen  our 
present  insistence  on  accurate  details,  and  to  in- 
vent some  summary  and  more  imaginative  method 
for  projecting  our  stories  on  the  stage. 

For,  finally,  the  main  demerit  of  our  current  art 
of  stage-direction  is  the  fact  that,  though  admira- 
bly photographic,  it  is  utterly  unimaginative.  It 
costs  a  great  deal  to  make  the  moon  rise  on  the 
modern  stage,  because  we  invent  an  artifice  that 
is  a  marvel  of  mechanical  dexterity ;  but  it  cost 
Shakespeare  nothing  to  make  his  audience  imagine 
a  moon-rise  at  the  opening  of  the  last  act  of  The 
Merchant  of  Venice.  And  Shakespeare's  method, 
even  for  the  modern  theatre,  remains  the  better 
of  the  two.  The  most  enjoyable  experience  in  life 
is  the  easy  exercise  of  one's  own  mind;  and  the 
spectators  in  the  theatre  will  enjoy  themselves  in 
proportion  as  their  minds  are  called  easily  into 
activity  by  the  spectacle  that  is  presented  to  them. 


58  STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

The  stage-director  should  therefore  study  not  so 
much  how  he  may  accomplish  the  creative  work 
himself  as  how  he  may  contrive  to  make  the  audi- 
ence accomplish  it  during  the  two  hours'  traffic 
of  the  stage.  There  is  no  advantage  in  setting 
half  of  Rome  upon  the  boards  to  listen  to  Marc 
Antony's  oration,  if,  with  a  mere  handful  of 
supernumeraries,  the  stage-director  can  make  the 
audience  imagine  that  half  of  Rome  is  present. 
We  have  carried  the  contemporary  photographic 
method  to  its  uttermost  development :  a  change  is 
obviously  needed :  and  it  is  apparent  that  the  next 
turn  that  the  art  of  the  theatre  must  take  is  a  turn 
toward  more  imaginative  stage-direction. 


IV 

The  stage-direction  of  the  immediate  future  has 
already  cast  its  light  before  it.  Already  three 
thoroughly  practicable  remedies  have  been  sug- 
gested for  the  three  evils  that  have  been  enum- 
erated. Professor  Max  Reinhardt,  of  Berlin,  has 
shown  us  how  we  may  obtain  relief  from  the  in- 
sistence on  details;  the  Irish  Players  have  shown 
us  how  to  save  money  wisely  in  the  preparation  of 
productions;  and  Mr.  Gordon  Craig  has  shown 
us  in  his  practice  (and  endeavored,  somewhat 
vainly,  to  teach  us  in  his  theory)  how  we  may 
turn  the  theatre  to  more  imaginative  uses. 


MODERN  ART  OF  STAGE-DIRECTION    59 

It  was  very  instructive,  recently,  to  compare 
the  production  of  Kismet  —  which  was  put  on, 
according  to  our  customary  photographic  method, 
by  one  of  our  best  American  stage-directors,  Mr. 
Harrison  Grey  Fiske — with  Professor  Rein- 
hardt's  production  of  Sumurun.  Both  of  these 
plays  told  fantastic  Oriental  stories  imitated 
from  the  Arabian  Nights;  but  the  methods  of 
production  were  diametrically  dissimilar.  Kismet 
was  made  beautiful  by  the  elaboration  of  details ; 
but  Sumurun  was  made  beautiful  by  the  suppres- 
sion of  details.  Mr.  Fiske's  method  was  to  multi- 
ply effects ;  but  Professor  Reinhardt's  method  was 
to  simplify  them.  Much  of  his  scenery  was  de- 
liberately crude.  There  was,  for  instance,  a  pink 
palace  with  wabbly  little  windows  that  looked  as 
if  a  child  had  painted  it  playfully  in  a  picture- 
book.  Kismet  was  localized,  with  archaeological 
accuracy,  in  the  Baghdad  of  a  thousand  years 
ago,  and  was  consistently  Arabian;  but  Sumurun 
displayed  a  careful  lack  of  localization  in  either 
place  or  time.  Some  of  the  costumes  suggested 
Turkey,  others  Persia  or  Arabia,  others  China  or 
Japan ;  and  there  was  no  possible  means  of  guess- 
ing at  any  definite  date  for  the  story.  The  archi- 
tecture belonged  to  no  country  and  to  no  age; 
it  was  merely  fantastically  Oriental.  Through- 
out the  whole  production  the  truth  was  impressed 
upon   the   eye   that  the   Orient   of   Sumurun  was 


60  STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

an  Orient  of  dream;  and  the  setting  had  no  an- 
chorage in  actuality. 

The  second  problem  —  the  problem  of  expense 
—  has  been  coped  with  practically  by  the  Irish 
Players.  These  associated  lovers  of  the  drama 
carry  with  them  an  extensive  repertory,  and  they 
cannot  afford  to  spend  any  considerable  sum  of 
money  on  the  investiture  of  any  of  their  plays ; 
but  they  have  successfully  surmounted  this  eco- 
nomic difficulty  by  casting  emphasis,  not  on  the 
scenery  and  properties,  but  on  the  reading  of  the 
lines  and  on  the  lighting  of  the  stage.  When  they 
present  a  play  of  Synge's,  they  let  the  author  do 
the  work,  by  reading  with  undisrupted  fluency  the 
long  roll  of  his  rhythm.  At  other  times  they 
contrive  to  decorate  a  scarcely  furnished  stage  by 
a  deft  manipulation  of  their  lighting.  Birthright^ 
for  instance,  is  set  in  a  homely  cottage,  with  only 
a  few  necessary  bits  of  furniture  and  scarcely  any 
properties.  There  is  a  fireplace  [left  forward], 
and  a  staircase  leading  off-stage  to  the  right. 
The  set  is  very  shallow.  The  back  discloses  a 
blank,  bare  wall,  interrupted  only  by  a  window  and 
a  door.  Not  a  single  picture  is  hung  upon  this 
surface  of  dingy  plaster.  But  the  footlights  are 
suppressed.  The  stage  is  lighted  only  by  the  fire- 
light, a  candle  on  the  table,  and  some  unindicated 
illumination  in  the  flies.  The  result  is  that  the 
actors,  as  they  move  about,  cast  huge  and  varying 


MODERN  ART  OF  STAGE-DIRECTION    61 

shadows  over  the  bare  surface  of  the  wall  and 
decorate  it  continuously  with  fluctuating  and  im- 
pressive designs.  Again,  in  The  Rising  of  the 
Moon,  the  footlights  are  suppressed,  and  the  stage 
is  lighted  only  by  two  streams  of  apparent  moon- 
light which  come  to  a  focus  at  a  large  barrel  in  the 
centre,  on  which  the  two  most  important  actors 
seat  themselves,  —  while  the  wharf  and  the  water 
in  the  background  are  merely  imagined  in  a  dark- 
ness that  is  inscrutable  and  alluringly  mysterious. 
In  these  two  instances,  the  Irish  Players  contrived 
to  set  their  stage  with  rare  imaginative  effective- 
ness, without  any  expenditure  of  money  whatso- 
ever. 


One  of  the  leaders  of  the  new  movement  toward 
a  more  imaginative  handling  of  the  stage  is  Mr. 
Gordon  Craig.  Mr.  Craig  has  toiled  for  many 
years  as  a  designer  of  costumes,  scenery,  and 
properties ;  he  has  tried  experiments  in  the  deli- 
cate art  of  lighting  the  stage ;  and  he  has  made 
a  few  productions,  in  various  European  capitals, 
which  have  been  very  favorably  received.  He  has 
been  regarded  by  many  critics  as  a  salutary  ideal- 
ist, and  has  been  hailed  by  a  few  as  the  prophet 
of  a  new  era  in  the  theatre.  Meanwhile,  he  has 
exhibited  his  designs  —  all  of  which  are  odd  and 
many  of  which  are  interesting  —  and  has  talked 


62  STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

a  great  deal,  in  those  rapt,  ecstatic,  and  inde- 
cipherable terms  that  unduly  impress  the  un- 
initiated. 

Mr.  Craig  refuses  to  regard  the  drama  either 
as  a  department  of  literature  or  as  a  department 
of  pictorial  art.  He  regards  it  as  a  distinct  and 
independent  artistic  evocation,  of  which  the  ele- 
ments are  action,  words,  line,  color,  and  rhythm. 
He  considers  the  stage-director  as  inevitably  the 
ultimate,  supreme  commander  of  the  collaboration 
required  by  this  compound  art.  All  of  this  is  sane 
enough ;  but  he  then  proceeds  to  deify  the  stage- 
director.  He  even  goes  so  far  as  to  express  a 
desire  to  abolish  both  the  author  and  the  actor  in 
order  that  the  stage-director  may  not  be  ham- 
pered by  any  intermediary  artists  in  the  expres- 
sion of  his  imaginative  ideas.  Mr.  Craig  would 
supplant  the  actor  by  a  perfect,  but  involuntary, 
puppet,  which  he  calls  by  the  hybrid  and  horrific 
term  of  Uber-Marionette ;  and  by  a  company  of 
these  puppets  he  would  have  the  drama  acted 
without  words.  Thereby  he  would  cast  prepon- 
derant emphasis  upon  the  scenery  and  lighting, 
and  would  make  the  drama  only  an  exercise  in 
stage-direction.  It  is  hardly  necessary  to  remark 
that  this  idea  is  mad. 

But  Mr.  Craig  has  recently  made  a  production 
of  Hamlet  in  the  Art  Theatre  of  Moscow;  and 
the  accounts  of  this  production  arc  much  more 


MODERN  ART  OF  STAGE-DIRECTION    63 

worthy  of  studious  consideration  than  any  of  his 
abstract  theories.  Let  us  consider  the  following 
passage  from  a  report  in  the  London  Times  for 
January  12,  1912: 

Every  scene  in  the  Hamlet  has  for  its  foundation  an 
arrangement  of  screens  which  rise  to  the  full  height  of  the 
proscenium,  and  consist  of  plain  panels  devoid  of  any 
decoration.  Only  two  colors  are  used — a  neutral  cream 
shade  and  gold.  A  complete  change  of  scene  is  created 
simply  by  the  rearrangement  of  these  screens,  whose  value 
lies,  of  course,  not  so  much  in  themselves,  as  in  their  forma- 
tion and  the  lighting.  Mr.  Craig  has  the  singular  power 
of  carrying  the  spiritual  significance  of  words  and  dramatic 
situations  beyond  the  actor  to  the  scene  in  which  he  moves. 
By  the  simplest  of  means  he  is  able,  in  some  mysterious 
way,  to  evoke  almost  any  sensation  of  time  or  space,  the 
scenes  even  in  themselves  suggesting  variation  of  human 
emotion. 

Take,  for  example,  the  Queen's  chamber  in  the  Castle  of 
Elsinore.  Like  all  the  other  scenes,  it  is  simply  an  arrange- 
ment of  the  screens  already  mentioned.  There  is  nothing 
which  definitely  represents  a  castle,  still  less  the  locality  or 
period;  and  yet  no  one  would  hesitate  as  to  its  significance 
— and  why?  Because  it  is  the  spiritual  symbol  of  such  a 
room.  A  symbol,  moreover,  whose  form  is  wholly  dependent 
upon  the  action  which  it  surrounds;  every  line,  every  space 
of  light  and  shadow,  going  directly  to  heighten  and  amplify 
the  significance  of  that  action,  and  becoming  thereby  some- 
thing more  than  its  mere  setting — a  vital  and  component 
part  no  longer  separable  from  the  whole. 

All  of  this  is  extremely  interesting  —  though 
we  may  wish  that  the  correspondent  of  the  Times 
had  been  a  little  more  explicit  in  elucidating  pre- 


64.  STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

cisely  how  Mr.  Craig's  arrangement  of  mono- 
chromatic screens  became  the  "  spiritual  symbol 
of  a  room."  One  point  is  clear:  and  that  is  that 
Mr,  Craig  has  apparently  succeeded  in  suppress- 
ing all  superfluous  details,  in  diminishing  con- 
siderably the  expenditure  of  the  producing  man- 
ager, and  in  forcing  the  audience  to  create  in 
imagination  the  most  telling  features  of  the  in- 
vestiture of  the  play.  In  doing  this  he  has  pointed 
the  way  toward  a  new  manipulation  of  the  ex- 
ercise of  stage-direction,  which  is  more  laudatory 
than  the  manifestations  of  this  difficult  art  which 
are  commonly  current  in  the  theatre  of  to-day. 


VI 
A  PLEA  FOR  A  NEW  TYPE  OF  PLAY 


The  mind  of  the  artist  has  often  been  defined 
as  a  magic  glass  through  which  we  look  at  nature 
—  a  sort  of  lens  which  brings  a  chosen  phase  of 
life  clearly  to  a  focus  within  a  definitely  bounded 
field  of  vision.  With  this  definition  in  mind,  I 
should  like  to  ask  the  reader,  at  the  outset  of  the 
present  chapter,  to  lay  the  book  aside  in  order  to 
perform  a  simple  experiment  in  optics.  Let  him 
step  to  the  nearest  window  and  look  for  a  mo- 
ment steadily  at  the  house  across  the  street.  He 
will  see  this  house  at  a  certain  distance  and  in  a 
certain  degree  of  detail ;  and,  without  turning  his 
head,  he  will  also  see,  though  less  distinctly,  the 
three  or  four  houses  on  either  side  of  the  one 
which  he  is  looking  at  directly.  His  field  of  vision 
is  not  definitely  bounded  but  fades  off  on  all  sides 
into  a  gradually  growing  dimness ;  and  the  aspect 
of  the  one  house  on  which  his  eyes  are  fixed  is 
entirely  natural  and  not  particularly  interesting. 

Let  the  reader  now  procure  an  ordinary  pair 
65 


66  STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

of  opera  glasses  and  bring  them  to  a  focus  on  a 
single  window  of  the  house  across  the  street.  This 
window  will  look  much  nearer  and  much  larger 
than  before ;  it  will  be  seen  with  greater  intimacy 
of  detail;  and  it  will  appear  within  a  definitely 
bounded  field  of  vision  —  composed,  as  painters 
say,  within  a  circle,  that  stops  the  eye  from  wan- 
dering. These  three  advantages  have  been  derived 
from  looking  through  a  pair  of  lenses ;  but  it 
should  be  noted  also  that  the  observer  has  suffered 
an  attendant  disadvantage  —  namely  that  he  can 
no  longer  look  at  the  entire  house,  but  can  merely 
imagine  its  total  aspect  by  inference  from  the  ap- 
pearance of  that  single  little  circle  which  has  been 
so  marvelously  magnified. 

Lastly,  let  the  reader  turn  the  opera  glasses 
about  and  look  at  the  house  through  what  we  are 
accustomed  to  call  the  wrong  end  of  the  instru- 
ment. Again  he  will  observe  a  field  of  vision  that 
is  definitely  bounded  by  a  circle ;  but  this  field  of 
vision  will  embrace  immeasurably  more  than  that 
which  was  disclosed  by  the  previous  experiment. 
Instead  of  seeing  only  a  single  window,  he  will 
now  see  the  entire  house  and  a  segment  of  each 
of  the  adjacent  houses;  and,  because  of  the  clear- 
ness of  the  picture,  he  will  seem  to  see  even  more 
than  he  noticed  with  the  naked  eye.  These  points 
must  be  counted  as  advantages ;  but,  on  the 
other    hand,    the    house    will    look    much    farther 


PLEA  FOR  A  NEW  TYPE  OF  PLAY      67 

away  and  will  be  seen  with  less  distinctness  of 
detail. 

This  experiment  may  help  us  to  an  understand- 
ing of  the  processes  of  art.  Looking  at  the  house 
with  the  naked  eye  was  like  observing  life  without 
any  intermediary  aid;  but  looking  at  the  house 
through  either  end  of  the  opera  glasses  was  like 
observing  life  through  the  medium  of  the  artist's 
mind.  In  both  cases  the  artificial,  or  artistic, 
vision  was  more  interesting  than  the  natural,  or 
actual;  and  in  either  case  the  reason  was  the  same 
—  namely,  that  the  picture  was  composed  and 
framed  within  limits  that  required  the  absolute 
attention  of  the  eye,  by  forbidding  it,  for  the 
moment,  to  glance  at  anything  excluded  from  the 
field  of  vision. 

But  a  very  different  sort  of  interest  was  added 
to  the  aspect  of  the  house,  according  as  the 
observer  looked  through  one  end  or  the  other  of 
the  opera  glasses ;  and  this  difference  offers  us  a 
basis  for  distinguishing  the  two  great  processes 
of  art.  Employed  in  the  more  ordinary  way,  the 
glasses  afforded  a  nearer  view  of  a  smaller  field  of 
vision ;  and  turned  about  in  the  less  ordinary  way, 
they  afforded  a  more  distant  view  of  a  larger  field 
of  vision.  Similarly,  there  is  a  sort  of  art  that 
brings  us  more  intimately  into  touch  with  life  but 
shows  us  less  of  it  at  a  time ;  and  there  is  another 
sort  of  art  that  removes  life  to  a  greater  remote- 


68  STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

ness  but  shows  us  more  of  it  at  a  time.  The 
first  type  we  may  call  intensive  and  the  second  ex- 
tensive. Intensive  art  proceeds  by  amplifying  the 
little,  and  extensive  art  proceeds  by  imagining  the 
large.  The  one  magnifies  details,  the  other  mini- 
fies them. 

Neither  of  these  processes  is  absolutely  more 
efficient  than  the  other.  Intensive  art  achieves  a 
finer  intimacy  of  representation,  but  extensive  art 
achieves  a  greater  range  and  sweep  of  treatment. 
In  Venetian  painting,  for  example,  the  two  types 
may  be  distinguished  in  the  very  dlff^erent  aims 
and  methods  of  Carpaccio  and  Tintoretto.  Car- 
paccio  is  forever  asking  us  to  look  at  some  detail 
of  life  through  a  magnifying  glass.  He  is  one 
of  the  most  insinuatingly  intimate  of  artists.  He 
obtrudes  a  pretty  flower  or  a  funny  little  animal 
or  some  wistful  fleeting  vision  of  a  face  to  be  taken 
to  the  heart  and  loved  as,  for  the  moment,  the 
most  poignantly  interesting  object  in  the  world. 
But  Tintoretto  has  no  patience  for  details.  In 
his  great  picture  of  the  Last  Judgment,  in  the 
Madonna  dell'  Orto,  he  swirls  us  headlong 
through  the  roaring  and  illimitable  vastitudes  of 
space.  Appalled  amid  immensity,  we  have  no  use 
for  any  magnifying  glass :  we  cry  out,  rather, 
for  a  minifying  glass,  to  render  more  remote  that 
awful  whirring  of  eternal  wings.  Carpaccio 
paints  with  camel's  hair  and  Tintoretto  with  a 


PLEA  FOR  A  NEW  TYPE  OF  PLAY     69 

comet's  tail.  Which  is,  finally,  the  better  art? 
.  .  .  The  answer  depends  on  what  it  is  that  you 
are  looking  for. 

The  terms  "  intensive "  and  "  extensive,"  as 
applied  to  art,  are  comparatively  unfamiliar;  but 
tlioy  seem  to  me  more  useful  for  the  purposes 
of  criticism  than  such  more  familiar  terms  as 
"  realistic  "  and  "  romantic,"  or  "  prosaic  "  and 
"  poetic."  In  nomenclature,  as  in  life,  familiarity 
seems  to  breed  contempt  or,  at  the  least,  a  lack 
of  understanding.  A  coin  too  often  passed  loses 
the  clear  image  of  its  minting.  Such  words  as 
"  realistic  "  and  "  romantic  "  have  been  so  often 
and  so  loosely  used  that  they  have  lost  all  definite 
significance  to  the  majority  of  minds.  But  the 
new  terms  "  intensive  "  and  "  extensive  "  point  to 
a  dichotomy  which  should  be  definite  and  clear, 
and  offer  us  a  sure  divining-rod  for  distinguishing 
the  two  great  processes  of  art. 

In  the  light  of  this  distinction,  let  us  consider 
the  present  status  of  the  great  art  of  the  drama. 
We  shall  observe  at  once  that  the  theatre,  in  this 
present  period,  is  given  over  almost  utterly  to 
the  practice  of  intensive  art;  although,  in  all 
preceding  periods,  it  had  been  assumed  without 
question  that  the  proper  province  of  the  theatre 
was  the  exhibition  of  extensive  art.  The  discovery 
of  this  essential  difference  leads  us  at  once  to  a 
central  point  of  view,  from  which  we  may  reason- 


70  STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

ably  investigate  the  special  merits  and  defects  of 
the  drama  of  to-day,  in  comparison  with  the  dra- 
matic art  of  other  ages. 

To  make  this  comparison  concrete,  let  us  set 
one  of  the  best  plays  of  this  microscopic  modern 
age  beside  a  couple  of  the  best  plays  of  the  spa- 
cious age  of  great  Elizabeth.  Let  us  compare  the 
structural  method  pursued  by  Sir  Arthur  Pinero 
in  The  Thunderbolt  with  that  pursued  by  Shake- 
speare in  Hamlet  and  Antony  and  Cleopatra. 
The  whole  story  of  The  Thunderbolt  is  set  forth 
in  three  rooms ;  and,  except  for  the  lapse  of  one 
month  between  the  first  act  and  the  second,  the 
action  is  entirely  continuous.  In  other  words,  the 
narrative  is  arranged  in  three  distinct  pigeon- 
holes of  place  and  two  distinct  pigeon-holes  of 
time.  But,  in  setting  forth  the  narrative  of 
Hamlet,  Shakespeare  employed  twenty  different 
pigeon-holes  of  time  and  place;  and,  to  produce 
the  panoramic  effect  of  Antony  and  Cleopatra,  he 
allowed  himself  no  less  than  forty-two  narrative 
units,  or,  as  we  call  them,  scenes.  The  effect  of 
the  modern  instance  is  to  magnify  details ;  the 
effect  of  the  Elizabethan  is  to  minify  and  merge 
them  into  a  general  sense  of  the  drums  and  tram- 
plings  of  a  world-engirdling  empire.  The  modern 
work  diminishes  the  natural  distance  between  life 
and  the  obsei'ver,  but  constricts  the  limits  of  the 
field  of  vision;  whereas  the  work  of  Shakespeare 


PLEA  FOR  A  NEW  TYPE  OF  PLAY      71 

enlarges  the  limits  of  the  field  of  vision,  but  re- 
moves life  to  a  more  than  natural  remoteness  from 
the  eye  of  the  observer.  The  merit  of  cither 
method  is  the  defect  of  the  other.  Both  Shake- 
speare and  Pinero  were  asked  to  cover,  in  the  two 
hours'  traffic  of  the  stage,  the  same  extent  of  can- 
vas ;  but  the  latter  filled  the  picture  by  amplifying 
the  little  and  the  near,  and  the  former  by  imagin- 
ing the  large  and  the  remote. 

n 

It  is  difficult  to  estimate  the  ultimate  impor- 
tance of  any  big  historical  development  so  long  as 
one  is  living  in  the  midst  of  it ;  but  it  seems  safe 
to  assert  that,  by  the  historians  of  future  ages, 
the  last  thirty  years  of  the  development  of  the 
drama  will  be  pointed  out  as  especially  important 
because  of  the  unprecedented  triumph,  in  so  brief 
a  period,  of  the  methods  of  intensive  art.  This 
development  has  been  defined  very  clearly  by  Mr, 
Henry  Arthur  Jones  in  the  illuminative  preface  to 
his  lately  published  play  entitled  The  Divine  Gift. 
This  essay  is  so  valuable  that  I  shall  take  the 
liberty  of  quoting  the  following  sentences  at 
length :  "  For  a  long  generation  our  realistic 
drama  of  modern  life  has  practised  an  ever-in- 
creasing and  more  severe  economy  of  scene,  and 
action,  and  dialogue.     It  tends  to  deny  itself  all 


72  STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

trappings  and  effects  but  those  of  ordinary  every- 
day life.  It  has  become  an  eavesdropping  and 
photographic  reporter,  taking  snapshots  and 
shorthand  notes.  We  may,  without  intending  to 
depreciate  it,  ,call  our  present  convention  the 
eavesdropping  convention  —  the  convention  which 
charges  playgoers  half-a-crown  or  half-a-guinea 
for  pretending  to  remove  the  fourth  wall,  and 
pretending  to  give  them  an  opportunity  of  spying 
upon  actual  life,  and  seeing  everything  just  as 
it  happens." 

Under  what  Mr.  Jones  has  happily  defined  as 
the  "  eavesdropping  convention,"  we  have  brought 
nature  nearer  to  the  eye  than  ever  before  and  have 
vastly  magnified  the  observation  of  details  of 
daily  life ;  but,  at  the  same  time,  we  should  not 
neglect  to  notice  that,  in  doing  so,  we  have  nar- 
rowed the  field  of  vision  and  have  sacrificed  that 
feeling  of  remoteness  which  is  inseparable  from 
any  contemplation  of  the  vast.  To  off^set  the  gain 
that  is  derivable  from  intimate  particularity  of 
observation,  we  have  lost,  as  Mr.  Jones  remarks 
in  another  passage  of  the  same  essay,  "  the 
crowded  and  varied  bustle  of  Shakespeare,  the 
busy  hum  that  comes  from  his  universal  workshop, 
the  drums  and  tramplings  of  his  hundred  legions, 
the  long  resounding  march  of  assembled  humanity 
as  it  troops  across  his  boards." 

Though  we  may  feel  that  the  welfare  of  the 


PLEA  FOR  A  NEW  TYPE  OF  PLAY     73 

human  race  requires  that  some  people  should  be 
thin  and  others  should  be  stout,  it  would  be  un- 
reasonable for  us  to  ask  an  individual  to  grow 
both  thin  and  stout  at  the  same  time.  Similarly, 
it  would  be  unreasonable  for  us  to  expect,  witliin 
a  single  period,  an  equally  remarkable  develop- 
ment of  intensive  and  extensive  artistry.  It  has 
taken  thirty  years  for  the  drama  to  develop  its 
present  high  efficiency  of  intensive  art.  It  would 
be  unwise  to  undervalue  this  development,  which 
has  resulted  in  the  production  of  many  plays 
which  exhibit  an  extremely  high  order  of  intelli- 
gence ;  and  we  should  not  be  surprised  to  note  the 
inevitable  corollary,  that  during  the  same  period 
the  excluded  method  of  extensive  art  has  shown  no 
development  of  any  great  importance. 

But  the  drama  is  a  democratic  art,  whose  des- 
tinies are  guided  by  an  almost  universal  suffrage ; 
and  we  learn  from  the  history  of  all  democracies 
that,  after  a  single  party  has  long  remained  in 
power,  the  public  is  certain,  sooner  or  later,  to 
elect  the  opposition  party  into  office,  in  order  to 
give  it  a  chance  to  show  what  it  can  do.  The 
drama  cannot  remain  forever  in  the  hands  of  the 
great  intensive  artists  of  the  present  age.  Sooner 
or  later  the  public  will  demand,  if  only  for  the 
sake  of  change,  a  return  to  the  methods  of  ex- 
tensive art. 

The  moment  for  such  a  revolution  is  the  mo- 


74f  STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

ment  when  the  party  in  power  has  finally  achieved 
the  utmost  of  which  it  is  capable.  When  one 
method  has  attained  its  climax,  the  only  hope  of 
progress  lies  in  changing  to  another  method. 
There  are  many  indications  that  the  intensive 
drama  of  the  present  period  has  already  reached 
its  zenith  and  has  thereby  destroyed  its  possibili- 
ties of  future  service.  For  thirty  years,  as  the 
eavesdropping  convention  has  been  more  and  more 
improved,  the  drama  has  brought  us  nearer  and 
nearer  to  actuality,  with  a  constantly  increasing 
magnifying  of  details  and  consequent  limitation  of 
the  field  of  vision.  This  development  can  go  no 
further.  Such  plays  as  The  Madras  House  and 
Hindle  Wakes  and  Rutherford  and  Son  have 
brought  the  observer  so  close  to  actuality  that  any 
further  development  along  the  same  lines  would 
result  in  an  annihilation  of  the  difference  that 
separates  art  from  life.  But  this  annihilation 
would  be  a  reductio  ad  absurdum.  The  drama 
would  retain  no  reason  for  existence  if  it  should 
sacrifice  its  license  of  being  different  from  life. 
In  the  face  of  such  a  danger,  there  is  only  one 
thing  to  be  done.  We  must  at  once  increase  the 
field  of  vision  by  removing  the  drama  to  a  greater 
remoteness  from  actuality. 

When  the  realists  threaten  to  cut  their  own 
throats,  it  is  time  for  us  to  turn  the  government 
over  to  the  romantics.     When  prose  has  done  its 


PLEA  FOR  A  NEW  TYPE  OF  PLAY     75 

best,  it  is  time  for  us  to  call  for  poetry.  And 
when  the  intensive  drama  can  proceed  no  further 
with  its  program  without  destroying  its  own  ex- 
cuse for  being,  the  time  has  come  to  use  the  the- 
atre once  again  for  the  expression  of  extensive 
art. 


in 

But  romance  and  poetry  have  been  so  long  ex- 
cluded from  the  drama  that  it  will  be  necessary 
to  invent  a  new  type  of  play  in  order  to  domesti- 
cate them  in  the  theatre  once  again.  If  Shake- 
speare were  alive  to-day,  he  would  find  the  in- 
tensive formula  of  Pinero  unsuited  to  the  exhibi- 
tion of  his  own  extensive  art.  The  eavesdropping 
convention  has  admirably  served  the  purpose  of 
our  realistic  and  prosaic  writers ;  but  we  cannot 
impose  this  convention  forever  on  the  writers  of  a 
newer  age. 

What  must  be  the  formula  for  the  drama  of 
to-morrow?  What  Ibsen  called  "the  law  of 
change  "  indicates  that  this  new  drama  will  be 
extensive  in  method,  romantic  in  mood,  and  poetic 
in  tone ;  but  in  what  particulars  must  we  revise 
the  technique  of  the  present  in  order  to  prepare 
the  theatre  for  this  inevitable  change? 

First  of  all,  it  is  obvious  that  the  next  genera- 
tion of  dramatic  artists  will  require  a  freer  hand- 


76  STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

ling  of  the  categories  of  time  and  place  than  is 
possible  in  the  contemporary  drama.  To  the  in- 
tensive playwright  it  is  clearly  an  advantage;  to 
crowd  his  narrative  into  no  more  than  two  or 
three  or  four  distinct  pigeon-holes  of  place  and 
time;  but,  even  in  a  period  when  intensive  art  is 
dominant,  it  is  manifestly  unfair  to  impose  the 
same  formula  upon  playwrights  whose  natural 
tendency  is  toward  a  more  extensive  exercise  of 
art.  It  is  unfair  to  ask  the  poetic  and  romantic 
M.  Maeterlinck  to  cut  his  plays  according  to  a 
pattern  that  has  deliberately  been  developed  to 
suit  the  very  different  requirements  of  the  prosaic 
and  realistic  Mr.  Stanley  Houghton.  We  need 
a  new  dramatic  pattern,  which  shall  afford  a  freer 
scope  to  the  beating  of  the  large  and  luminous 
wings  of  the  extensive  artist. 

If  Shakespeare  could  arrange  his  narrative  in 
twenty,  or  even  forty  scenes  (instead  of  two  or 
three),  why  is  it  impossible  for  us  to  do  so  at  the 
present  day?  The  answer  is  not  theoretical  but 
practical.  The  Elizabethans  used  no  scenery,  in 
the  modern  sense ;  and  they  could  therefore  change 
their  time  and  place  by  the  simple  expedient  of 
emptying  the  stage  and  repeopling  it  with  other 
actors.  This  expedient  is  denied  us  by  the  incubus 
of  modern  scenery.  We  must  never  for  a  moment 
allow  ourselves  to  forget  that  the  development  of 
modem  scenery  is  the  one  scientific  factor  which 


PLEA  FOR  A  NEW  TYPE  OF  PLAY      77 

has  made  possible  the  recent  wonderful  develop- 
ment and  impressive  triumph  of  intensive  drama; 
but  we  must  notice,  on  the  other  hand,  that  this 
same  remarkable  invention  is  the  sole  factor  that 
impedes  us  from  employing  the  more  extensive 
narrative  convention  of  the  Elizabethan  stage  and 
exhibiting  "  the  long  resounding  march  of  assem- 
bled humanity  as  it  troops  across  the  boards." 

A  person  who,  although  his  youth  was  poor,  has 
learned  to  live  on  twenty  thousand  dollars  a  year 
can  never  easily  return  to  an  expenditure  of  only 
two  thousand  dollars  a  year.  Our  public  has 
grown  so  used  to  the  trappings  and  the  suits  of 
scenery  that  we  could  not  now  expect  it  to  accept 
the  sceneless  stage  of  Shakespeare,  even  for  the 
purpose  of  allowing  to  a  poet  a  less  impeded  flow 
of  narrative.  But  the  use  of  such  scenery  as  is 
commonly  employed  at  present  entirely  prevents 
the  playwright  from  adopting  the  remote  and  easy 
attitude  toward  time  and  place  which  was  accorded 
to  Elizabethan  authors. 

This  attitude  is  prevented  by  two  practical  con- 
siderations. In  the  first  place,  it  takes  so  long  to 
set  and  change  a  modern  scene  that  a  narrative 
in  twenty  units  would  require  at  least  four  hours 
for  its  presentation,  with  lapses  between  the  units 
so  protracted  that  the  audience  would  wander 
away  from  the  mood  of  the  story ;  and,  in  the 
second  place,  the  expense  of  twenty  modern  stage- 


78  STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

sets  would  ruin  the  manager  of  any  play.  When 
the  development  of  art  is  prevented  by  such  prac- 
tical impediments  as  these,  there  is  only  one  thing 
for  the  artist  to  do  —  he  must  demand  new  prac- 
tical inventions,  to  remove  the  obstacles  that  have 
been  set  athwart  his  path. 

Obviously,  the  two  inventions  that  are  needed, 
in  order  that  the  way  may  be  cleared  for  a  new 
development  of  extensive  drama,  are,  first,  a  means 
of  shifting  scenery  in  a  few  seconds  and,  second, 
a  means  of  manufacturing  scenery  at  a  very  small 
expense.  Until  these  two  inventions  are  perfected, 
romance  and  poetry  must  continue  to  endure  a 
fruitless  exile  from  the  modern  stage. 

But,  although  most  of  our  American  managers 
seem  as  yet  unaware  of  the  revolutions  that  have 
silently  been  taking  place  in  Europe,  both  of  these 
inventions  have  been  already  made  and  are  being 
rapidly  perfected  in  the  futuristic  theatres  of  the 
world. 

The  first  problem  has  been  solved  in  Germany 
by  the  simple  and  practical  invention  of  the  re- 
volving stage.  By  this  invention,  a  revolving  cir- 
cle is  inscribed  within  the  square  platform  that  is 
disclosed  by  the  proscenium.  This  circle  will  ac- 
commodate three  settings  at  the  same  time.  After 
the  first  set  has  been  used,  the  stage  may  be  re- 
volved in  a  few  seconds,  to  disclose  the  second  set; 
and  while  this  is  being  employed  by  the  actors,  a 


PLEA  FOR  A  NEW  TYPE  OF  PLAY      79 

new  scene  may  be  erected  in  place  of  the  one  that 
has  been  discarded. 

This  invention  has  supplanted  the  earlier  type 
of  movable  stage  which  is  still  in  use  at  the  Hof- 
burgtheater  in  Vienna.  The  method  of  this  mech- 
anism was  to  build  the  stage  in  a  series  of  plat- 
forms, which  could  be  raised  or  lowered  on  ele- 
vators. A  stage  of  this  type  was  erected  many 
years  ago  in  the  old  Madison  Square  Theatre  in 
New  York ;  but  it  is  an  evidence  of  the  backward- 
ness of  the  theatre  in  America  to-day  that  only 
two  stages  of  the  new  revolving  type  have  been 
installed  as  yet  in  the  theatres  of  this  country, 
and  that  both  of  these  (namely,  the  stage  of  the 
Century  Theatre  and  that  of  the  Little  Theatre) 
have  been  erected  by  a  single  forward-looking 
manager,  Mr.  Winthrop  Ames.  But  in  time  this 
new  invention  is  sure  to  be  adopted  in  our  other 
theatres ;  and,  thereafter,  it  will  be  possible  for 
us  to  change  the  scene  of  any  play  without  even 
lowering  the  curtain.  After  a  few  seconds  of 
darkness,  the  lights  may  be  turned  up,  to  disclose 
a  new  vista  of  the  panoramic  world. 

The  second  problem  —  the  problem  of  expense 
—  has  also  been  successfully  attacked  by  such  in- 
ventors as  Mr.  Gordon  Craig  and  Professor 
Max  Reinhardt.  It  is  necessary  to  build  solid 
and  expensive  scenery  for  the  exhibition  of 
realistic    and    intensive    plays ;    but    this    neces- 


80  STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

sity  need  no  longer  be  imposed  upon  the 
authors  of  extensive  and  poetic  dramas.  For 
the  purpose  of  impressionistic  art,  impressionistic 
scenery  is  adequate.  If  the  scene  be  imagined  in 
some  forest  of  Arden,  an  artistic  hanging  of 
green  curtains  will  mean  more  to  the  imagination 
than  any  rotund  and  heavy  forestry  of  canvas 
trees ;  and  a  subtler  atmosphere  may  be  suggested 
by  the  deft  manipulation  of  electric  lights  than 
by  the  definite  delineation  of  a  myriad  details.  In 
Moscow,  Mr.  Craig  has  recently  produced  Hamlet 
with  a  series  of  simple  screens  which  are  differently 
lighted  to  suggest  the  changing  moods  of  its  vari- 
able drift  of  narrative ;  and,  in  his  decorative  pan- 
tomime of  Sumurun,  Professor  Reinhardt  has 
shown  us  how  simply  it  is  possible  to  spare  ex- 
pense, in  setting  forth  a  story  in  a  dozen  scenes, 
by  the  employment  of  flat  backgrounds  washed  in 
with  primary  colors  and  the  abolition  of  the  super- 
fluous element  of  linear  perspective. 

IV 

In  view  of  such  inventions  as  these,  the  critic 
cannot  be  accused  of  a  lack  of  scientific  basis  in 
asking  for  a  new  type  of  play  to  relieve  the 
monotony  of  the  contemporary  theatre.  It  is  no 
longer  unpractical  to  plead  with  our  poetic  and 
romantic  authors  to  construct  their  narratives  in 


PLEA  FOR  A  NEW  TYPE  OF  PLAY     81 

twenty  scenes,  instead  of  two  or  three,  in  the  en- 
deavor to  recapture  "  the  busy  hum  of  Shake- 
speare's universal  workshop."  Our  public  has 
been  trained  so  long  to  look  at  life  only  through 
the  small  end  of  its  opera  glasses  that  it  has 
grown  to  neglect  the  interest  that  is  derivable  from 
looking  through  the  other  and  the  larger  end. 
In  thirty  years,  the  new  intensive  artistry  has  been 
developed  to  such  perfection  in  the  theatre  that 
the  public  has  almost  forgotten  the  foregone  de- 
lights of  the  extensive  drama.  But  a  younger 
and  a  freer  generation  is  now  knocking  at  the 
door.  The  intensive  drama  has  already  done  its 
best,  and  the  time  has  come  for  a  return  to  the 
methods  of  extensive  art. 

The  drama  of  the  present  is  so  excellent,  ac- 
cording to  its  method,  that  the  drama  of  the 
future  must  be  different.  The  new  type  of  play 
for  which  the  critic  is  pleading  in  the  present 
paper  will  be  not  analytic  but  synthetic.  It  will 
not  narrow  the  field  of  vision  to  set  life  apparently 
under  the  nose,  but  will  remove  life  to  an  enchant- 
ment of  remoteness  in  order  to  enlarge  the  field  of 
vision.  It  will  not  content  itself  with  the  analysis 
of  character  within  constricted  bounds  of  time  and 
place,  but  will  attempt  to  represent  the  logical 
development  of  character  in  many  places  and 
through  many  times.  It  will  not  be  realistic  but 
impressionistic,  not  prosaic  but  poetic.     It  will 


82  STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

exhibit  more  the  martial  march  of  Marlowe  than 
the  minute  and  mincing  gait  of  Stanley  Houghton. 
This  new  type  of  play  will  assuredly  be  written 
by  the  poets  of  the  rising  generation.  How  long 
—  one  wonders  —  will  the  public  have  to  wait  until 
it  achieves  a  conquest  of  the  theatre? 


VII 

THE  PERIOD  OF  PRAGMATISM 

There  have  been  many  periods  in  the  history 
of  the  drama  —  the  periods,  for  instance,  of 
Sophocles,  Calderon,  Shakespeare,  Moliere,  Racine, 
and  Sheridan  —  during  which  every  tragedy  or 
comedy  of  any  excellence  has  been  constructed 
in  accordance  with  a  single  formula,  a  formula  in 
each  case  invented  by  a  group  of  minor  artists  and 
developed  to  its  fullest  fruition  by  the  dominant 
dramatic  genius  of  the  age.  In  these  periods 
there  has  been  no  appreciable  disagreement  among 
playwrights  as  to  how  to  build  a  play.  The  ques- 
tion of  form  has  been  regarded,  for  the  time,  as 
settled,  and  the  scope  for  individual  innovation 
has  been  restricted  to  the  content  of  the  drama. 
One  dramatist  might  differ  from  another  in  the 
mood  and  message  of  his  plays,  but  both  authors 
would  employ  the  same  methods  of  technical 
attack. 

In  dealing  with  such  periods  as  these,  it  has 
always  been  comparatively  easy  for  dramatic 
critics  to  determine  certain  fixed  standards  by 
which  to  measure  the  technical  merit  of  any  play 

88 


M  STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

of  the  period.  All  that  Aristotle  had  to  do  was  to 
explain  inductively  the  structural  principles  which 
had  been  employed  by  Sophocles,  and  his  treatise 
became  at  once  a  text-book  for  all  subsequent 
authors  of  Greek  tragedy.  When  Regnard  de- 
termined to  write  comedies,  he  never  thought  of 
asking  questions  as  to  how  to  build  a  play.  There 
was  but  one  way,  to  his  mind  —  the  way,  of  course, 
of  Moliere ;  and  Regnard  made  his  comedies  ac- 
cording to  the  methods  of  his  master. 

But  these  conditions  of  creation  and  of  criticism 
do  not  obtain  in  the  present  period  of  the  drama. 
We  are,  as  Tennyson  remarked,  "  the  heirs  of  all 
the  ages " ;  and  we  have  taught  ourselves,  by 
study  of  the  past  and  experiment  in  the  present, 
a  myriad  different  ways  of  making  plays.  Ghosts 
is  a  great  drama,  and  so  is  The  Blue  Bird;  Strife 
is  a  good  play,  and  so  is  Sumurun;  but  how  is  the 
critic  to  determine  inductively,  from  the  study  of 
such  dissimilar  instances  as  these,  any  fixed  and 
serviceable  standard  by  which  to  measure  the 
technical  merit  of  any  other  drama  of  the  present 
period?  He  might,  indeed,  determine  after  a 
thorough  study  of  The  Second  Mrs.  Tanqueray 
that  Pinero's  method  is  the  best  for  making 
modern  plays ;  but  in  that  case  what  could  he 
allow  himself  to  say  concerning  Cyrano  de  Ber- 
gerac   or  The  Playboy   of  the   Western   World? 

It  was  chiefly  with  this  modern  age  in  his  mind 


THE  PERIOD  OF  PRAGMATISM       85 

that  Mr.  William  Archer  began  his  manual  of 
craftsmanship  entitled  Play-Making  with  the  sa- 
gacious statement  that  "  there  are  no  rules  for 
writing  plays."  He  might  have  added  as  a  cor- 
ollary that  there  can  be,  in  consequence,  no 
rules  for  judging  them.  In  this  eclectic  age  of 
composition  the  critic  must  fall  back  upon  that 
attitude  of  mind  known  to  philosophers  as  "  prag- 
matism." The  pragmatists,  despairing  of  the  dis- 
covery of  any  absolute,  unalterable  Truth  —  and 
being  tempted  even,  at  times,  to  doubt  of  its  ex- 
istence —  rely,  for  the  immediate  purposes  of 
thinking,  upon  any  theory  that  seems  for  the  mo- 
ment to  fit  the  facts,  and,  whenever  this  theory 
is  controverted  by  a  more  catholic  experience,  re- 
linquish it  cheerfully  in  favor  of  some  other  hy- 
pothesis which  is  adequate  to  serve  its  turn.  They 
do  not  ask  for  the  utter  truth,  they  ask  only  for 
a  theory  that  shall  seem  to  serve ;  and  by  this 
modesty  they  insure  their  philosophy  against  any 
disaster  from  disproof. 

Pragmatism  can  exist  only  in  an  age  that  is 
able,  without  discomfort,  to  disbelieve  in  dogma. 
We  live  in  such  a  period  of  the  dramatic  art.  Our 
contemporary  playwrights  imagine  no  necessity 
to  agree  upon  a  creed  of  making  plays.  Any 
method  will  serve  —  provided  only  that  it  shall 
prove  itself  of  service.  This  is  the  spirit  of  the 
present  age,  an  age  adventurous  and  youthful,  a 


86  STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

period,  as  the  phrase  is,  "  alive  and  kicking,"  and 
therefore  one  indisputably  great.  And  since 
criticism  must  ever  follow,  and  not  lead,  creation, 
since  the  critic  must  always  report  the  artist  like 
a  Boswell  instead  of  teaching  him  like  a  Mentor, 
it  follows  that  the  critic  of  the  contemporary 
drama  must  maintain  an  open  mind  toward  any 
sort  of  effort  and  must  judge  it  not  in  reference 
to  any  predetermined  rule,  but  solely  in  reference 
to  the  particular  intention  of  the  author.  The 
critic  of  the  current  drama  must  enjoy  The 
Thunderbolt  and  must  also  appreciate  The  Yellow 
Jacket,  though  the  peculiar  merits  of  either  com- 
position would  have  been  transmuted  to  defects 
if  they  had  been  incorporated  in  the  other.  There 
is  no  one  way  of  making  plays  at  present ;  and 
the  duty  of  the  critic  is  not  to  argue  in  favor  of 
any  method  against  any  other,  but  merely  to  ex- 
plain in  any  given  case  the  particular  formula 
that  the  playwright  has  chosen  to  employ. 

The  one  thing  that  makes  the  function  of  the 
open-minded  commentator  unfalteringly  pleasur- 
able at  the  present  time  is  that,  every  year  or  so, 
he  is  required  by  some  new  playwright  to  alter  his 
entire  definition  of  the  drama.  He  may  have  de- 
cided, after  long  study,  that  something  must  al- 
ways happen  in  a  play ;  and  then  suddenly  he  will 
be  swept  from  his  anchorage  by  the  London  per- 
formance of  Elizabeth  Baker's  Chains,  of  which 


THE  PERIOD  OF  PRAGMATISM       87 

the  whole  point  is  that  nothing,  by  any  possiblhty, 
can  happen  to  the  characters.  He  may  have 
stated,  time  and  time  again,  that  the  method  of 
our  modem  drama  is  more  visual  than  auditor}-, 
that  at  present  the  scenario  is  more  important 
than  the  dialogue  and  that  (as  Mr.  Augustus 
Thomas  has  put  it)  every  good  contemporary 
play  must  employ  as  its  basis  an  interesting  pan- 
tomime; and  suddenly,  without  forewarning,  he 
will  find  himself  applauding  such  a  piece  as  Hindle 
Wakes,  which  reverses  all  these  propositions  and 
builds  its  merits  on  their  opposites.  Any  drama 
that  can  do  this  to  the  critic  is  undeniably  alive ; 
and  unless  the  critic  can  respond  with  equal 
avidity  to  these  incongruous  impressions,  he  is 
unsuited  to  this  present  age  of  pragmatism. 

But  even  the  pragmatists  must  yearn  occasion- 
ally for  some  vision,  however  fleeting,  of  that  abso- 
lute, unalterable  Truth,  of  which  they  question 
the  existence;  and  even  the  most  open-minded 
dramatic  critic  must  sometimes  desire  to  establish 
some  certain  standard  of  judgment  by  which  he 
may  measure  the  merit  of  plays  so  utterly  differ- 
ent in  intention  and  in  method  as  Hedda  Gabler 
and  Peter  Pan.  This  desire  is  akin  to  that  which, 
in  all  ages,  has  moved  the  high  and  immemorial 
dreamers  of  our  human  lineage  to  seek  some  single 
God  to  supplant,  in  the  imagination  of  mankind, 


88  STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

the  more  convenient  and  pragmatic  gods  that  were 
assumed  by  our  forefathers  as  the  rulers  of  the 
world.  The  human  mind  seeks  always  for  some 
supreme  and  single  thought,  and  abhors  plurality 
and  heterogeneity  as  nature  abhors  a  vacuum. 
Therefore  —  if  we  may  descend  suddenly  from  the 
general  to  the  particular  —  the  critic  of  any  art 
desires  always  some  single  and  indisputable  stand- 
ard by  which  to  estimate  the  most  divergent  and 
incongruous  examples  of  that  art.  He  feels  the 
necessity  of  some  axiom  sufficiently  catholic  to 
cover  and  to  justify  his  instinctive  homage  to  two 
statues  so  divergent,  for  example,  as  the  Venus  of 
Melos  and  the  Thinker  of  Auguste  Rodin.  In  in- 
tention and  in  method  these  works  are  obviously 
different ;  but  what  is  the  essence  of  that  mystery 
that  tells  us  intuitively  that  both  of  them  are 
great .'' 

This  question  is  not  difficult  to  answer.  Any 
work  of  art  is  good  if  it  forces  the  spectator  to 
imagine  and  to  realize  some  truth  of  life ;  and  any 
effort  of  art  is  bad  if  it  fails  of  this  endeavor. 
Here  is  the  final  test  of  efficiency,  and  it  should 
be  noted  that  in  this  test  there  is  no  question  of 
technique.  Any  play,  regardless  of  the  method 
of  the  author,  is  a  good  play  if  it  awakens  the 
audience  to  a  realization  of  some  aspect  of  the 
infinitely  various  assertions  of  the  human  will.  It 
must   impose   upon   the    spectator   the   educative 


THE  PERIOD  OF  PRAGMATISM       89 

illusion  of  reality ;  it  must,  by  this  means,  in- 
crease vicariously  his  experience  of  life;  and,  by 
adding  to  his  understanding  of  mankind,  it  must 
broaden  his  potential  range  of  sympathy  with 
human  beings  both  similar  and  dissimilar  to  him- 
self. It  must  exhibit  some  picture  of  the  par- 
ticular, so  tactfully  selected  and  displayed  that  it 
shall  suggest  a  momentary  vision  of  the  absolute. 
It  must  lead  the  public  out  of  living  into  life. 

By  a  standard  so  essential  and  so  catholic  as 
this,  the  critic  may  equitably  estimate  the  merit 
of  innumerable  plays,  of  any  period,  however  di- 
vergent they  may  be  in  method.  It  does  not  ulti- 
mately matter  whether  a  play  is  realistic  or 
romantic,  visual  or  auditory,  tightly  or  loosely  con- 
structed, whether  it  casts  its  emphasis  on  char- 
acter or  incident,  on  scenario  or  dialogue  —  it  is 
required  only  that  it  command  the  spectator  to 
pause  for  a  moment  in  his  drift  of  living  and  to 
envisage  that  reality  of  life  which  is  perennial  and 
absolute.  This  is  a  requirement  that  is  fulfilled 
by  plays  so  different  in  technical  details  as  Tan- 
querciy  and  Cyrano,  Ghosts  and  Sumurun.  To  ac- 
complish this  effect,  any  method  will  serve,  so  long 
as  it  shall  prove  itself  of  service. 

The  first  thing  to  be  considered  in  estimating 
the  merit  of  a  new  play  is,  therefore,  the  sincerity 
of  the  author's  purpose.  Has  he  honestly  and 
earnestly  endeavored  to  say  something  that  is  new 


90  STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

and  true,  or  has  he  merely  effected  a  new  com- 
bination of  old  theatrical  materials  with  the  ex- 
pectation of  producing  a  series  of  transitory 
thrills?  In  the  latter  case,  although  his  play  may 
run  a  year,  it  cannot  be  considered  an  addition  to 
dramatic  literature;  but  in  the  former  case,  al- 
though the  piece  may  fail,  the  critic  must  pro- 
claim it  worthy.  For,  as  Stevenson  has  said,  "  A 
spirit  goes  out  of  the  man  who  means  execution. 
.  .  .  All  who  have  meant  good  work  Avith  their 
whole  hearts,  have  done  good  work.  .  .  .  Every 
heart  that  has  beat  strong  and  cheerfully  has  left 
a  hopeful  impulse  behind  it  in  the  world,  and  bet- 
tered the  tradition  of  mankind." 

But  a  determination  to  tell  the  truth  —  though 
it  is,  indeed,  the  most  important  item  —  is  not 
the  only  asset  of  excellence  in  the  drama.  Art 
would  be  a  very  simple  exercise  if  telling  the  truth 
were,  in  Hamlet's  phrase,  "  as  easy  as  lying  " ;  but 
it  is  often  very  hard  to  tell  the  truth  and  nothing 
but  the  truth.  Any  telling  of  the  truth  implies 
the  collaboration  of  two  parties  —  the  party  of 
the  first  part,  who  does  the  speaking,  and  the 
party  of  the  second  part,  who  docs  the  listening. 
A  dramatist  must  not  only  represent  his  truth  in 
a  manner  that  is  satisfying  to  his  own  mind,  but 
must  also  express  it  in  a  manner  that  shall  be  con- 
vincing to  his  audience.  To  achieve  this  delicate 
endeavor,  a  high  degree  of  technical  accomplish- 


THE  PERIOD  OF  PRAGMATISM       91 

ment  is  necessary,  in  terms  of  the  particular 
method  that  the  dramatist  has  chosen. 

In  the  drama,  as  in  every  other  art,  technique 
is  not  an  end  in  itself,  but  only  a  means  to  the 
great  end  of  telling  the  truth.  In  the  estimation 
of  the  critic,  technical  dexterity  should  be  con- 
sidered always  a  secondary,  not  a  primary,  con- 
cern. Any  method  must  be  adjudged  a  good 
method  unless  it  betrays  the  playwright  into  com- 
promise or  falsification;  but  clever  workmanship 
that  is  exercised  in  the  display  of  trivial  material 
is  not  admirable  in  itself. 

It  is  difficult  to  estimate  the  comparative  im- 
portance of  several  dramas,  each  of  which,  in  its 
own  way,  unfalteringly  tells  the  truth ;  but  it  is 
easy  enough  to  determine  if  a  play  is  bad.  Either 
because  of  technical  inefficiency,  or  because  of  a 
conscious  and  responsible  surrender  of  his  own 
apprehension  of  the  truth,  the  playwright  will  re- 
port his  characters  as  doing  certain  things,  or 
saying  certain  things,  which  those  people,  in  those 
situations,  could  not  possibly  have  said  and  done; 
and  the  critical  auditor  will  revolt  from  the  rep- 
resentation with  a  subconscious  sense  that  he 
knows  better  than  to  believe  the  fable  that  is 
being  set  before  him. 


VIII 
THE  UNDRAMATIC  DRAMA 


There  are  many  indications  that  the  time  has 
come  for  a  revision  of  those  traditional  definitions 
of  the  drama  which  we  have  inherited  from  a  long 
line  of  critics  stretching  all  the  way  from  Aristotle 
down  to  Brunetiere.  A  critical  formula  can  never 
be  fixed  and  final  like  a  proposition  in  geometry. 
The  critic  derives  a  principle  inductively,  from 
the  analysis  of  many  works  of  art  which  exhibit 
a  family  relation  to  one  another.  This  principle 
may  subsequently  be  applied,  in  a  logical  process 
of  deduction,  to  the  measurement  of  other  works 
of  art  created  in  imitation,  or  in  emulation,  of 
those  from  which  the  formula  was  originally  in- 
ferred. But  any  attempt  to  impose  this  principle 
upon  another  group  of  works  of  art,  created  in 
expression  of  a  totally  different  impulse,  would  be 
illogical  and,  as  a  consequence,  uncritical.  Thus, 
a  critic  of  the  tragedies  of  Shakespeare  would 
properly  infer  the  principle  that  the  chief  inci- 
dents in  a  tragic  story  should  be  acted  on  the 
stage;  but  a   critic   of  the   tragedies   of  Racine 

92 


THE  UNDRAMATIC  DRAMA  93 

would  be  required  to  infer  the  contrary  principle 
that  the  chief  incidents  in  a  tragic  story  should  be 
imagined  off  the  stage. 

Such  fluctuating  principles  as  these  have  been 
altered,  easily  and  unreluctantly,  from  age  to  age ; 
but  there  are  a  few  formulas  which  have  been  re- 
peated, with  apparent  soundness,  for  so  many  cen- 
turies that  they  appear  as  obstacles  in  the  path  of 
critics  with  whom  pragmatism  is  not  a  native  and 
instinctive  mood  of  mind.  One  of  these  is  Aris- 
totle's dictum  that  action  is  the  prime  essential 
of  a  play.  This  ancient  critic  stated  that  the 
method  of  the  drama  is  to  exhibit  character  in 
action.  So  far  as  I  recall,  no  subsequent  critic 
has  ever  ventured  to  argue  against  this  assertion ; 
and  yet,  if  we  accept  it  as  a  dogma,  what  are 
we  to  do  with  such  a  play  as  Mr.  Stanley  Hough- 
ton's Hindle  Wakes?'  This  work  is  undeniably  a 
masterpiece  according  to  its  kind,  because  it  re- 
minds us  vividly  of  life  and  tells  us  something  that 
is  new  and  true;  yet  it  is  almost  utterly  devoid  of 
action.  Its  method  is  not  to  exhibit  character  In 
action  but  to  reveal  character  through  dialogue. 
What  —  to  repeat  —  shall  be  done  with  such  a 
play?  It  would  surely  be  a  cowardly  recourse  to 
beg  this  question  by  labeling  this  interesting  and  T 
admirable  work  with  such  an  adjective  as  "  undra- 
matic." 

Another  statement  of  Aristotle's  that  has  al- 


94  STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

ways  been  accepted  without  argument  is  that  the 
plot  of  a  play  should  exhibit  a  beginning,  a  mid- 
dle, and  an  end.  Yet,  if  we  regard  this  statement 
as  a  dogma,  what  are  we  to  do  with  such  a  play 
as  Mr.  Granville  Barker's  The  Madras  House? 
This  piece  reveals  no  definite  beginning;  and  the 
author  has  deliberately  planned  it  in  such  a  way 
that  it  shall  show  no  end.  Structurally,  this  work 
is,  so  to  speak,  a  succession  of  four  middles.  Tlie 
final  stage-direction  reads,  "  She  doesn't  finish,  for 
really  there  is  no  end  to  the  subject";  and  then 
the  curtain  falls,  to  cut  us  off  from  our  momen- 
tary participation  in  a  dozen  lives  which  are  con- 
sidered as  continuous  and  as  undetermined  as  our 
own.  Shall  we  dare  to  dismiss  such  a  fabric  as 
"  unstructural,"  after  it  has  entertained  us  for 
two  hours  with  the  activity  of  one  of  the  keenest 
intellects  at  present  working  for  the  English 
theatre  ? 

Less  than  a  hundred  years  ago,  the  successful 
German  playwright  Gustav  Freytag  wrote  a  book 
on  The  Technique  of  the  Drama,  in  which  he  as- 
serted that  a  dramatic  plot  may  be  divided  into 
five  successive  sections,  —  namely,  the  Exposition, 
the  Rise,  the  Climax,  the  Full,  and  the  Catastrophe. 
He  induced  this  principle  mainly  from  a  study  of 
the  plays  of  Shakespeare,  —  a  study  in  which  he 
was  hampered  by  the  assumption,  which  has 
subsequently    been    disproved,    that    Shakespeare 


THE  UNDRAMATIC  DRAMA  95 

planned  his  plays  in  five  acts  instead  of  in  an  un- 
counted series  of  scenes.  This  formula  of  Frey- 
tag's  has  attained  a  popular  currency  that  is  as- 
tonishingly wide;  and  yet,  if  we  should  attempt 
to  support  it  as  a  dogma,  what  could  we  do  with 
such  a  play  as  Mr.  Galsworthy's  The  Pigeon? 
This  piece,  from  the  outset  to  the  end,  is  merely 
an  Exposition  of  a  problem  of  society :  it  reveals 
no  Rise,  no  Climax,  no  Fall,  and  no  Catastrophe : 
yet  it  is  a  very  interesting  play  and  has  been  ac- 
cepted by  the  most  intelligent  citizens  of  London 
and  New  York  as  one  of  the  most  moving  dramas 
of  recent  years. 

It  was  only  twenty  years  ago  that  the  late 
Ferdinand  Brunetiere  announced  his  famous  prin- 
ciple that  the  essential  clement  of  drama  is  a  strug- 
gle between  human  wills.  This  statement  was  at 
once  accepted  as  an  axiom.     It  has  been  repeated  "■ 

from  mouth  to  mouth  so  many  thousand  times, 
especially  in  such  popular  phrases  as  "  di'amatic 
conflict,"  that  very  few  people  realize  at  present 
that  this  formula  is  not  at  least  as  old  as  Aristotle. 
Until  very  recently  there  have  been  none  so  bold 
to  do  this  principle  irreverence,  and  the  formula, 
"  no  struggle,  no  drama,"  has  been  accepted  as  a 
commonplace  of  dramatic  criticism.  Yet,  if  we 
receive  this  statement  as  a  dogma,  what  are  we  to  Q, 
do  with  such  a  play  as  Chains,  by  Miss  Elizabeth 
Baker.''     This  piece  exhibits  not  an  assertion,  but 


96  STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

a  negation,  of  human  wills.  It  presents,  at  most, 
a  struggle  of  wills  with  a  minus  sign  in  front  of 
them.  The  entire  point  of  the  play  is  that  nothing 
can  happen  to  the  characters.  Their  wills  are 
paralyzed  by  an  environment  which  renders  them 
incapable  of  self-assertion.  Yet  few  plays  of  re- 
cent years  have  stirred  an  audience  so  deeply  to  a 
realization  of  life. 

In  his  manual  of  craftsmanship  entitled  Play- 
Making,  that  bold  and  pioneering  critic,  Mr. 
William  Archer,  has  devoted  a  very  interesting 
chapter  to  a  discussion  of  the  intrinsic  meaning 
of  the  terms  "  Dramatic  and  Undramatic."  He 
has  bravely  rejected  the  formula  of  Brunetiere 
as  inapplicable  to  many  famous  instances.  Dis- 
carding "  conflict  "  as  essential  to  the  drama,  Mr. 
Archer  has  suggested,  in  its  stead,  the  element  of 
"  crisis."  In  this  point,  he  seems  to  follow  Rob- 
ert Louis  Stevenson,  who  referred  to  the  drama 
as  dealing  with  "  those  great,  passionate  crises  of 
existence  where  duty  and  inclination  come  nobly 
to  the  grapple."  Yet  I  do  not  think  it  would  be 
difficult  to  convince  so  open-minded  a  critic  as 
Mr.  Archer  that  the  element  of  "  crisis  "  is  no 
more  indispensable  to  a  genuinely  interesting 
drama  than  the  clement  of  "  conflict."  Where, 
for  instance,  is  there  any  crisis  in  The  Madras 
House,  which  —  if  I  remember  rightly  —  Mr. 
Archer  much  admired.''     Where  is  the  element  of 


THE  UNDRAMATIC  DRAMA  97 

crisis  in  The  Pigeon?  And  whci*e,  after  the  very 
first  minute  of  the  action,  is  there  any  crisis  in 
The  Great  Adventure? 

In  the  face  of  these  negations  of  even  the  most 
modest  effort  to  advance  a  dogma,  it  would  seem 
that  the  only  course  for  the  critic  is  to  retreat 
to  the  position  thus  admirably  put  by  Mr.  Archer, 
—  "  The  only  really  valid  definition  of  the  dra- 
matic is :  Any  representation  of  imaginary  per- 
sonages which  is  capable  of  interesting  an  aver- 
age audience  assembled  in  a  theatre.  .  .  .  Any 
further  attempt  to  limit  the  content  of  the  term 
'  dramatic  '  is  simply  the  expression  of  an  opinion 
that  such-and-such  forms  of  representation  will 
not  be  found  to  interest  an  audience ;  and  this 
opinion  may  always  be  rebutted  by  experiment." 

The  fact  that,  in  recent  years,  every  attempt 
to  limit  the  content  of  the  term  "  dramatic  "  has 
been  rebutted  by  experiment  must  be  accepted 
as  an  evidence  that  we  are  living  in  a  very  vigorous 
period  of  dramatic  art.  No  playwright  is  so  in- 
disputably a  creative  artist  as  one  who  can  sendf 
the  critics  back  to  their  studies  to  revise  their 
definitions  of  the  drama.  The  attitude  of  such  an 
artist  may  be  phrased  familiarly  as  follows :  "  You 
tell  me  that  such-and-such  a  process  has  never  yet 
been  followed  in  the  drama :  very  well,  —  I  will 
show  you  that  it  can  be  followed,  with  both  artistic 
and   popular    success."      If,    after   this    assumed 


98  STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

assertion,  the  creative  artist  fails  in  his  endeavor, 
his  failure  may  be  taken  as  an  evidence  of  the  in- 
violability of  the  principle  he  has  assaulted;  but, 
if  he  succeeds,  there  can  be  no  other  recourse  for 
the  critic  than  to  discard  the  ancient  formula  and 
to  induce  a  new  one. 

But  this  necessity  is  repugnant  to  the  type  of 
critic  who  hates  to  change  his  mind.  In  the  epi- 
logue to  Fanny^s  First  Play,  Mr.  Bernard  Shaw 
has  introduced  a  critic  of  this  type,  in  the  figure 
of  the  ultra-Aristotelian  Mr.  Trotter.  Of  the 
later  works  of  Mr.  Shaw  and  many  of  his  emula- 
tors, Mr.  Trotter  simply  and  definitely  says : 
"  They  are  not  plays."  He  is  willing  to  consider 
them  as  essays,  as  discussions,  or  as  conversations ; 
but  he  will  not  consider  them  as  plays,  since  Aris- 
totle never  saw  the  like  of  them.  But  this  view  of 
Mr.  Trotter's  seems  unnecessarily  narrow.  Surely 
—  as  Mr.  Archer  has  stated  —  any  story  pre- 
sented by  actors  on  a  stage,  which  interests  an 
audience,  cannot  be  denied  the  name  of  drama: 
one  might  as  logically  look  a  lion  in  the  eyes  and 
tell  him  he  was  not  a  lion.  And  if  only  an  action 
that  is  motivated  by  a  struggle  of  the  wills  can  be 
labeled  with  the  adjective  "dramatic,"  let  us,  by 
all  means,  hasten  to  admit  that  there  is  such  a 
thing  as  "  undramatic  drama." 

This  playful  contradiction  in  terms  affords  the 
critic  a  convenient  label  to  apply  to  many  modern 


THE  UNDRAMATIC  DRAMA  99 

works  which,  while  violating  at  several  points  the 
traditional  canons  of  dramatic  criticism,  have 
evoked  an  enthusiastic  response  from  audiences  of 
more  than  usual  intelligence.  If  we  smilingly 
apply  to  these  works  the  paradoxical  adjective 
"  undramatic,"  this  pleasant  exercise  of  whimsi- 
cality should  be  taken  as  a  tribute  to  the  authors' 
skill  in  stretching  the  traditional  limitations  of  the 
drama  to  force  them  to  encompass  something 
strange  and  new. 

n 

An  effort  to  achieve  a  new  type  of  "  undra- 
matic drama  "  has  made  itself  apparent  very  re- 
cently in  the  works  of  several  of  the  younger 
realistic  writers  of  Great  Britain ;  and  this  effort 
has  already  assumed  such  important  proportions 
that  it  constitutes  one  of  the  most  interesting 
movements  in  the  contemporary  theatre.  Among 
the  writers  who  have  contributed  to  this  new 
movement  are  Granville  Barker,  John  Galsworthy, 
John  Masefield,  Elizabeth  Baker,  Macdonald  Hast- 
ings, Stanley  Houghton,  Githa  Sowerby,  and 
Arnold  Bennett.  These  authors  differ  markedly 
from  one  another  in  the  mood  and  message  of  their 
plays,  but  they  exhibit  a  surprising  agreement  in 
their  revolutionary  manner  of  attacking  the  tech- 
nical traditions  of  the  stage. 

It   is   apparently   their   purpose   to   carry   the 


100         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

drama  more  nearly  into  accord  with  actuality  than 
^^  it  has  ever  been  before,  by  the  expedient  of  ignor- 
ing the  tradition  of  the  well-made  play.  Instead 
of  attempting  further  to  perfect  the  pattern  of 
play-making  which  has  been  handed  down  from 
Scribe,  through  Dumas  fils  and  Ibsen,  to  Sir  Ar- 
thur Pinero  and  Mr.  Henry  Arthur  Jones,  they 
have  chosen  to  discard  the  pattern  and  to  adopt  a 
method  of  construction  more  closely  in  accordance 
with  the  modesty  of  nature.  They  do  not  build 
their  stories  to  a  climax  at  the  close  of  the  penulti- 
mate act;  for  they  disdain  the  easy  emphasis  of 
curtain-falls  and  desire  to  avoid  any  artificial 
heightening  of  a  single  favored  incident.  They 
seem  to  disagree  with  the  immemorial  axiom  of 
Aristotle  that  a  play  should  have  a  beginning,  a 
middle,  and  an  end ;  for  they  admit  only  that  the 
drama  must  exhibit  the  middle  of  an  action. 
Their  plays  begin  almost  anywhere,  and  often  do 
not  end  at  all.  We  feel  —  and  the  authors  desire 
us  to  feel  —  that  the}^  might  have  stopped  an  act 
sooner  or  written  ten  acts  more.  By  deliberately 
avoiding  a  conclusion,  and  by  starting  the  story 
at  a  point  which  presupposes  innumerable  ante- 
cedent causes,  these  authors  seek  to  imitate  the 
drift  of  life  itself,  —  which  exhibits  no  beginnings 
and  no  endings,  but  only  an  appalling  continuity. 
Nature  is  neither  selective  of  events  nor  logical 
in  the  arrangement  of  them ;  but  without  selection 


THE  UNDRAMATIC  DRAMA         101 

and  arrangement  it  is  impossible  to  make  a  plot. 
In  this  dilemma,  the  apostles  of  the  "  undramatic 
drama  "  prefer  to  side  with  nature,  and  are  will- 
ing, whenever  necessary,  to  get  along  without  a 
plot.  In  order  to  remove  attention  from  the  ele- 
ment of  plot,  they  cast  entire  emphasis  upon  the 
element  of  character.  Character  is  all  they  care 
about ;  and  provided  that  their  imaginary  people 
are  representative  and  real,  they  do  not  deem  it 
indispensable  that  they  shall  reveal  themselves  in 
terms  of  action.  They  even  undertake  to  extend 
the  province  of  the  drama  by  including  in  their 
plays  such  unassertive  characters  as  have  always  ":& 
been  regarded  hitherto  as  undramatic.  They  re- 
fuse to  restrict  the  drama  to  an  exhibition  of  a 
struggle  between  human  wills  resulting  necessarily 
in  action,  and  often  choose  instead  to  exhibit  a 
deadlock  between  human  wills  that  results  in  the 
negation  of  action. 

Such  characters  as  these,  when  exhibited  upon 
the  stage,  must  reveal  themselves  mainly  through 
the  medium  of  dialogue.  What  they  think  and 
what  they  feel  must  express  itself  more  through 
what  they  are  heard  to  say  than  through  what 
they  are  seen  to  do.  The  plays  of  the  new  realists 
are  therefore  less  visual,  and  more  auditory,  in  O 
their  appeal  than  the  majority  of  our  contem- 
porary dramas.  It  appears  that  these  young 
authors  miffht   have   taken   for  their  motto   that 


102         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

striking  phrase  of  Stevenson's,  in  a  letter  to  Mr. 
Henry  James  —  "  Death  to  the  optic  nerve."  By 
their  reliance  upon  dialogue  as  the  essential  factor 
of  their  plays,  they  seem  to  be  seeking  what  may 
be  called  a  return  to  literature.  Their  dialogue 
is  masterly :  it  has  to  be ;  for  their  plays  appeal 
so  little  to  the  eye  that  the  audience  is  required 
to  listen  closely  to  the  spoken  words. 

What,  now,  shall  be  said  concerning  these  de- 
partures from  the  practice  of  the  greatest  play- 
wrights of  the  elder  generation.''  Much,  upon  the 
one  hand,  may  be  said  against  them.  The  en- 
deavor of  the  new  realists  is  based  upon  the  as- 
sumption that  life  itself  is  more  dramatic  than  any 
theatrical  selection  and  arrangement  of  events. 
They  therefore  exercise  their  artistry  in  an  effort 
to  conceal  the  fact  that  the  drama  is  different 
from  nature.  But  if  this  effort  were  ever  per- 
fectly successful,  the  drama  would  cease  to  have 
a  reason  for  existence,  and  the  only  logical  con- 
sequence would  be  an  abolition  of  the  theatre.  It 
would  seem,  as  a  matter  of  principle,  that  there 
can  scarcely  be  a  fruitful  future  for  a  movement 
which,  if  extended  to  the  utmost,  would  result  in 
a  reductio  ad  ahsurdum. 

But,  on  the  other  hand,  if  we  judge  the  apostles 
of  the  new  realism  less  by  their  ultimate  aims  than 
by  their  present  achievements,  we  must  admit  that 
they  are  rendering  a  very  useful  service  by  hold- 


THE  UNDRAMATIC  DRAMA        103 

ing  the  mirror  up  to  many  interesting  contrasts 
between  human  characters  which  have  hitherto 
been  ignored  in  the  theatre  merely  because  they 
would  not  fit  neatly  into  the  pattern  of  the  well- 
made  play.  And  in  presenting  their  unconven- 
tional material,  these  young  authors  have  suc- 
ceeded in  producing  an  astonishing  impression  of 
reality.  By  suggesting  the  potential  intensity  of 
a  static  situation,  they  often  achieve  an  effect  that 
is  more  profoundly  moving  than  if  they  had  made 
the  stage  noisy  with  alarums  and  excursions. 
Even  a  critic  who  might  disagree  with  their 
theories  could  not  fail  to  recognize  and  to  admire 
the  extraordinary  talents  of  these  authors.  Be- 
cause of  the  sincerity  of  their  respect  for  life 
and  the  seriousness  of  their  endeavor  to  represent 
it  faithfully,  they  have  already  earned  a  high 
rank  upon  the  roster  of  contemporary  dramatists. 


IX 
THE  VALUE  OF  STAGE  CONVENTIONS 

In  his  Carol  of  Occupations  Walt  W^hitman 
said,  "  All  architecture  is  what  you  do  to  it  when 
you  look  upon  it ;  ...  all  music  is  what  awakes 
from  you  when  you  are  reminded  by  the  instru- 
ments." It  is  particularly  true  of  the  drama  that 
the  only  finally  effective  scenes  are  those  that  hap- 
pen not  so  much  upon  the  stage  as  in  the  mind 
of  the  spectator.  The  purpose  of  a  play  is  not  to 
reproduce  the  actual  but  to  suggest  the  real,  and 
this  suggestion  must  be  made  through  the  medium 
of  many  theatrical  conventions  which,  though  in 
themselves  unnatural,  are  competent  to  stimulate 
the  audience  to  the  imagining  of  nature. 

The  conventions  of  the  theatre  have  differed 
widely  in  different  times  and  lands,  and  the  ac- 
ceptance of  any  particular  set  of  conventions  is 
merely  a  matter  of  public  custom.  To  the  theatre- 
going  public  of  any  period  the  conventions  of 
their  own  stage  always  seem  simple  and  natural 
because  they  are  accustomed  to  them,  whereas  the 
conventions  of  any  other  period  appear  unnatural 
and  forced.  To  our  public  at  the  present  time 
104 


VALUE  OF  STAGE  CONVENTIONS  105 

it  would  seem  funny  if  the  actors  in  a  tragedy 
should  wear  cardboard  masks  and  walk  on  stilted 
boots,  yet  this  convention  seemed  simple  and  nat- 
ural to  the  Athenians  who  listened  to  the  tragedies 
of  Sophocles.  It  would  seem  unnatural  to-day  if 
an  ancient  Roman  emperor  should  appear  upon 
the  stage  in  the  costume  of  Louis  XIV  of  France, 
yet  this  convention  was  employed  without  dis- 
advantage in  the  tragedies  of  Racine.  We 
should  think  it  odd  if  an  orator  on  a  bare  plat- 
form out  of  doors,  with  the  afternoon  sun  striking 
full  upon  his  face,  should  suddenly  remark,  "  'Tis 
now  the  very  witching  time  of  night,"  but  Shake- 
speare's audience  in  1602  never  thought  of  laugh- 
ing when  Burbage  read  this  line  in  Hamlet.  We 
should  regard  it  as  unusual  if  an  actor  should 
enter  a  room  by  walking  through  the  walls,  but 
this  convention  never  bothered  the  original  spec- 
tators of  The  School  for  Scandal.  By  such  expe- 
dients as  these,  Sophocles  and  Shakespeare  and 
Racine  and  Sheridan  stimulated  in  their  audiences 
a  keener  sense  of  truth  than  is  ever  suggested  by 
our  own  minute  and  timorous  imitation  of  the 
actual. 

Because  of  the  influence  of  custom,  the  public 
of  to-day  pays  no  attention  to  many  artifices  of 
our  own  theatre  which  are  fully  as  unnatural  as 
the  conventions  that  have  just  been  noticed.  It 
is  not  natural,  for  instance,  that  a  room  should 


106         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

have  three  walls  instead  of  four,  and  that  nearly 
all  the  furniture  should  be  turned  to  face  the  in- 
visible fourth  wall.  In  actual  life  people  talk  for 
two  hours  without  moving  from  a  chair ;  but  on 
our  stage  they  get  up  at  the  end  of  every  two  or 
three  minutes  and  cross  over  to  another  chair  on 
the  opposite  side  of  the  room.  Furthermore,  our 
actors  keep  their  faces  turned  nine-tenths  of  the 
time  in  a  single,  certain  direction,  and  whisper 
their  most  intimate  concerns  in  a  voice  that  is 
easily  audible  to  a  thousand  people.  In  our  mod- 
ern theatre  people  eat  an  elaborate  dinner  of  a 
dozen  courses  in  ten  minutes  or  less ;  they  rarely 
write  a  letter  without  reading  it  aloud  as  they 
compose  it;  and  if  they  light  a  single  lamp,  they 
increase  by  several  hundred  candle-power  the 
illumination  of  the  room.  An  actor  who  has  just 
dropped  dead  upon  the  stage  gets  up  a  moment 
afterwards  to  smile  and  make  a  speech.  Two 
hours  elapse  in  ten  minutes,  and  when  an  actor 
fingers  a  piano  the  music  comes  from  off  the  stage. 
These  conventions,  viewed  from  an  external  and 
unsympathetic  point  of  view,  are  just  as  ridiculous 
as  those  which  were  employed  by  Sophocles  and 
Shakespeare ;  and  the  only  reason  why  we  do  not 
laugh  at  them  to-day  is  that  we  are  accustomed 
to  accept  them. 

The  drama  can  never  be  natural,  for  the  ulti- 
mate and  lofty  reason  that  if  ever  it  should  sue- 


VALUE  OF  STAGE  CONVENTIONS  107 

ceed  in  this  endeavor  it  would  annihilate  its  own 
excuse  for  being.  Art  would  be  unnecessary  un- 
less it  were  different  from  nature.  In  the  light 
of  this  truth,  the  present  prevailing  endeavor  of 
our  stage  to  hold,  in  a  precise  and  literal  sense, 
the  mirror  up  to  nature  must  be  regarded  as  a 
waste  of  energy.  Often  in  our  modern  theatre 
we  prevent  the  audience  from  imagining  the  real 
by  setting  before  it  too  literal  an  imitation  of  the 
actual.  It  is  therefore  desirable,  for  the  esthetic 
education  of  our  contemporary  theatre-goers,  that 
they  should  be  reminded  now  and  then  of  the  freer 
and  less  literal  conventions  that  have  been  easily 
accepted  in  the  drama  of  other  times  and  lands. 
From  the  cultural  and  critical  standpoint  this  is 
the  main  advantage  of  such  exhibitions  of  the 
stage  conventions  of  other  periods  as  were  offered 
in  that  memorable  series  of  historical  matinees 
that  marked  the  closing  weeks  of  the  New  Theatre. 
It  is  good  for  us  to  be  reminded  now  and  then 
that  the  dramatic  method  of  Shakespeare  was, 
with  all  its  crudities,  more  stimulating  to  the 
imagination  than  is  the  dramatic  method  of  Mr. 
Belasco ;  but  to  accomplish  this,  it  is  necessary  to 
produce  Shakespeare  in  the  Elizabethan  manner 
instead  of  in  the  manner  of  to-day. 

Looked  upon  in  the  light  of  such  considerations 
as  these,  the  recent  production  of  The  Yellom 
Jacket  must  be  regarded  as  the  most  educative  of- 


108         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

fering  which  has  been  presented  in  New  York  for 
several  seasons.  No  interested  student  of  the 
stage  can  afford  to  ignore  it.  But  the  merits  of 
this  remarkable  play  are  not  merely  educational ; 
for,  apart  from  its  historical  significance,  it  is  an 
esthetic  composition  of  rare  and  subtle  beauty. 

The  Yellow  Jacket  is  an  imaginary  Chinese 
play,  presented  in  accordance  with  the  conventions 
of  the  Chinese  theatre.  It  was  devised  and  writ- 
ten by  Mr.  J.  Harry  Benrimo  and  Mr.  George  C. 
Hazleton,  Jr.  The  scene  represents  the  stage  of 
the  old  Jackson  Street  Theatre  in  San  Francisco, 
and  upon  this  stage  a  typical  Chinese  story  is 
enacted  in  the  Chinese  manner. 

The  conventions  of  the  Chinese  stage  are  curi- 
ously similar  to  those  of  the  Elizabethan  theatre, 
and  the  story  of  The  Yellow  Jacket  is  therefore 
unfolded  in  accordance  with  a  narrative  method 
that  is  almost  identical  with  Shakespeare's.  As 
in  the  Globe  Theatre  on  the  Bankside,  the  stage 
is  a  platform  devoid  of  scenery,  but  decorated  by 
furniture  and  properties  that  are  shifted,  from  dia- 
logue to  dialogue,  to  accommodate  the  exigencies 
of  the  action.  Again,  as  at  the  Globe,  there  is  a 
door  at  either  side  of  the  rear  of  the  stage  —  one 
for  entrances  and  one  for  exits.  Between  these  two 
doors  there  is  an  alcove,  or  recess,  which  was  used 
by  Shakespeare  as  part  of  the  imagined  scene, 
but  is  employed  in  the  Chinese  theatre  to  house 


VALUE  OF  STAGE  CONVENTIONS  109 

the  orchestra  that  accompanies  the  dialogue  with 
incidental  music.  Over  this  alcove  there  is,  in 
both  theatres,  a  balcony,  or  upper  stage,  which 
may  be  used  at  any  moment  in  the  presentation  of 
the  story.  The  scene  is  imagined  to  be  wherever 
the  actors  say  that  it  is,  and  the  place  of  the  action 
may  be  shifted  by  the  simple  expedient  of  empty- 
ing the  stage  through  the  exit  door  and  bringing 
on  new  actors  through  the  entrance  door.  There 
is  a  chorus,  as  in  Shakespeare's  Henry  V,  to  ask 
the  audience  to  imagine  the  locality  of  the  scene 
about  to  be  presented ;  and,  from  dialogue  to  dia- 
logue, the  furniture  is  shifted  by  a  property-man, 
who  is  dressed  in  black  and  is  supposed  to  be  in- 
visible. 

These  Chinese  conventions,  which  are  identical 
at  nearly  every  point  with  those  of  Shakespeare, 
are  only  in  a  small  degree  less  natural  than  those 
of  our  American  stage  to-day ;  but  because  our 
public  is  not  used  to  them,  they  seem  to  us  ridicu- 
lous. Of  this  necessary  reaction  of  the  occidental 
audience  the  authors  of  The  Yellow  Jacket  have 
carefully  made  capital.  They  have  invited  the 
American  public  to  laugh  at  the  conventions  of 
the  Chinese  theatre  and  have  thereby  enriched 
their  play  with  comedy.  But,  by  doing  this,  they 
have  also  accomplished  a  more  difficult  achieve- 
ment. They  seem  to  have  reasoned  that  their 
auditors,  by  the  mere  exercise  of  laughing  their 


110         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

fill  at  these  outlandish  artifices,  would  become  so 
accustomed  to  them  that  in  time  these  very  con- 
ventions would  cease  to  seem  ridiculous  and  might 
securely  be  employed  for  the  suggestion  of  lofty 
poetry  and  poignant  pathos.  This  subtle  triumph 
has  been  successfully  achieved. 

It  would  be  superfluous  to  summarize  the  story 
of  this  play,  since  no  enumeration  of  its  ever- 
fiuctuating  flow  of  incidents  could  suggest  the 
whimsical  and  subtle  art  with  which  the  story  is 
unfolded.  The  black-robed  property-man  (who  is 
supposed  to  be  invisible)  piles  a  few  chairs  to- 
gether in  the  middle  of  the  stage,  smoking  all  the 
while  a  careless  cigarette  and  looking  ludicrously 
bored  at  the  performance.  A  young  man  and  a 
young  woman  climb  upon  the  chairs,  and  tell  you 
that  they  are  reclining  in  a  flower-boat  that  is 
drifting  slowly  down  a  river.  Two  attendants 
(imagined  to  be  boatmen)  stand  behind  the  chairs 
and  pole  rhythmically  at  the  unresisting  air  with 
slender  bamboo-rods  (imagined  to  be  oars),  while 
a  musician  (in  full  view  of  the  audience)  scrapes 
two  pieces  of  sand-paper  together  to  imitate  the 
swish  of  water  along  the  bilge  of  a  boat ;  and  lo !, 
in  spite  of  (or  perhaps  because  of)  the  crudity  of 
these  conventions,  the  auditor  finds  himself  really 
and  truly  (because  imaginatively)  drifting  in  a 
boat,  banked  with  flowers  and  lyrical  with  song 
and  redolent  of  youth  and  love.     To  achieve  such 


VALUE  OF  STAGE  CONVENTIONS  111 

an  eloquent  effect  as  this  by  means  so  primitive 
and  childish  is  a  scarcely  precedented  triumph  of 
theatric  art. 

The  story  drifts  through  many  different  moods, 
satiric,  tragic,  lyric,  pathetic ;  and  all  these  moods 
are  rendered  easily  through  media  of  utterance  at 
which  the  audience  has  laughed  heartily  only  a 
moment  before.  The  lines  are  beautifully  written, 
and  the  action  appeals  so  poignantly  to  the  imagi- 
nation that  we  realize  a  life-revealing  vision,  of 
which  no  literal  transcription  is  presented  on  the 
stage. 


THE  SUPERNATURAL  DRAMA 

There  is  a  predisposition  on  the  part  of  the 
populace  (and  also  of  most  of  the  reviewers)  to 
regard  any  play  which  employs  the  supernatural 
as  especially  imaginative.  Such  a  work  is  con- 
sidered particularly  difficult  to  accomplish ;  and 
the  result  is  commonly  labeled  "  literary,"  in  the 
laudatory  connotation  of  the  term.  It  is  consid- 
ered difficult  to  invent  a  devil  with  horns  and  a 
tail,  and  comparatively  easy  to  create  an  lago 
devoid  of  those  unusual  appendages.  It  is  con- 
sidered especially  "  literary  "  to  set  forth  a  five 
o'clock  tea  given  by  a  guinea-hen,  whereas  (pre- 
sumably) it  would  not  be  "  literary"  to  exhibit  an 
afternoon  tea  given  by  a  society  woman.  To  the 
popular  mind,  it  seems  highly  imaginative  to  in- 
vent a  faun  through  whose  body  you  may  shoot  a 
bullet  without  hurting  him;  but  it  would  not  (ap- 
parently) be  imaginative  to  create  a  man  whose 
viscera  would  be  disturbed  by  such  a  transit.  It 
is  considered  poetic  to  invent  a  piper  whom  chil- 
dren follow  because  of  some  magic  in  his  music; 
presumably  it  would  not  be  poetic  to  create  a  man 

112 


THE  SUPERNATURAL  DRAMA      113 

whom  children  would  follow  because  they  liked  to 
play  with  him. 

Any  a  priori  judgment  is  uncritical,  because  it 
denies  the  possibility  that  a  new  work  may  prove 
an  exception  to  the  rule  on  which  the  judgment 
has  been  based.  But  if  the  popular  mind  must 
presume  an  a  priori  judgment  of  these  exhibitions 
of  the  supernatural,  it  might  more  safely  presume 
them  to  be  less  difficult,  less  imaginative,  less  (in 
the  real  sense)  literary,  than  plays  which  repro- 
duce the  natural.  In  the  infancy  of  the  human 
race,  as  in  the  infancy  of  every  individual  (for 
the  mental  history  of  each  of  us  repeats  the  mental 
history  of  mankind),  all  stories  were  supernatural 
—  the  reason  being  that  the  supernatural  is  im- 
measurably easier,  both  to  fabricate  and  to  appre- 
ciate, than  is  the  natural.  And  the  supernatural 
is  easier  to  invent  and  to  understand  because  it 
requires  less  maturity  of  imagination.  Imagina- 
tion is  the  faculty  for  realization.  Contrary  to 
the  common  belief,  children  are,  as  a  rule,  in- 
capable of  imagination.  They  tell  themselves 
stories  of  ghosts  and  goblins  and  fairies  because 
they  are  unable  to  realize  men  and  women  and 
children ;  they  invent  exceptions  to  the  laws  of 
life  because  they  cannot  understand  the  laws ;  they 
wonder  at  a  dog  that  talks  because  they  have  not 
learned  to  wonder  at  a  dog  that  merely  barks. 
So,  in  its  infancy,  the  human  race  told  itself  stories 


114         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

of  miracles  and  considered  the  exceptional  divine ; 
it  has  required  a  more  matured  imagination  to  per- 
ceive that  divinity  is  evidenced  not  in  "  some 
scission  in  the  continuity  of  man's  experience,  some 
wilful  illegality  of  nature,"  but  in  law  itself, 
majestic  and  immutable.  The  function  of  imagi- 
nation is  to  discover  truth ;  the  function  of  art  is 
to  tell  it.  Myths  and  fables  are  of  service  only 
as  an  easy  and  a  shorthand  means  of  indicating 
simple  truths.  The  unusual  is  of  value  in  art 
only  in  so  far  as  it  calls  attention  to  the  usual 
in  life;  exceptions  are  important  only  as  they 
indicate  the  rule.  To  prefer  miracles  to  laws, 
to  dally  with  the  exception  rather  than  to  delve 
for  the  rule,  is  to  exercise  not  the  imagination  but 
the  fancy.  As  the  wisest  of  American  critics, 
Mr.  W.  C.  Brownell,  has  remarked,  "  Imagination 
and  fancy  differ  in  that,  both  transcending  expe- 
rience, one  observes  and  the  other  transgresses 
law."  Now,  of  course,  a  supernatural  fable  may 
be  faithful  to  the  laws  of  life,  may  (in  other 
words)  embody  an  imaginative  vision;  but  in  prac- 
tice, in  this  present  age  of  ours,  a  reversion  to 
the  infancy  of  art  more  often  indicates  an  irre- 
sponsibility of  fancy,  an  unwillingness  on  the  part 
of  the  artist  to  undertake  and  carry  through  the 
lofty  task  of  transmuting  the  actual  to  the  real. 
The  fancy  is  a  dangerous  faculty,  because  its  ex- 
ercise is  easy  and  is  invariably  attended  by  great 


THE  SUPERNATURAL  DRAMA      115 

good  fun,  whereas  to  exercise  imagination  is  la- 
borious and  cannot  be  accomplished  (to  speak 
figuratively)  without  fasting  and  prayer.  All 
that  M.  Rostand  had  to  say  in  Chantecler  might 
have  been  said  more  profoundly  if  he  had  realized 
his  characters  as  men  and  women.  The  piece  be- 
comes imaginative  only  in  those  passages  in  which 
it  becomes  human;  at  all  other  moments  it  is 
merely  fanciful  —  the  jeu  d'esprit  of  a  mind  that 
dallies  instead  of  the  great  task  of  a  mind  that 
toils.  Since  beauty  is  synonymous  with  truth,  as 
Keats  has  taught  us,  it  is  only  by  imagination 
that  beauty  can  be  created ;  all  that  fancy  can 
contrive  is  prettiness.  It  is  usually  an  artist  with 
a  dainty  fancy  who  chooses  to  tell  us  tales  of  skip- 
ping fauns  and  magic  pipes ;  but  it  requires  an 
august  imagination  to  reveal  to  us  the  beauty  in- 
herent in  the  common  life  of  every  day.  Sir  James 
Barrie  displayed  a  pretty  fancy  in  Peter  Pan;- 
but  in  What  Every  Womon  Knows  he  revealed  a 
beautiful  imagination.  Of  these  two  plays  by  the 
same  author,  the  natural  is  immeasurably  more 
imaginative  than  the  supernatural. 

But  if  it  is  a  fallacy  to  prejudge  that  a  super- 
natural play  must  be  more  imaginative,  it  is  no 
less  a  fallacy  to  accord  it  a  priori  a  higher  literary 
rank,  than  a  play  of  ordinary  life.  A  play  de- 
serves to  be  laureled  as  dramatic  literature  only 
when  it  expresses,  in  terms  of  the  technique  of 


116        STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

the  theatre  of  its  age,  some  truth  of  human  life 
that  is  important  to  humanity.  Fine  writing  does 
not  make  dramatic  literature.  Verbal  felicity  in 
dialogue  is  a  beauty  that  is  only  skin-deep;  the 
real  literary  value  of  a  play  depends  upon  the 
symmetry  and  strength  of  its  skeleton  and  the 
vitality  of  its  flesh  and  blood.  The  Thunderbolt 
is  a  greater  work  of  dramatic  literature  than 
Chantecler,  because  it  is  more  profoundly  and  con- 
sistently imagined — in  other  words,  more  real;  yet 
in  The  Thunderbolt  there  is  not  a  single  line  that 
is  quotable  for  verbal  beauty,  while  in  Chantecler 
there  are  pages  and  pages  that  are  marvels  of  the 
wizardry  of  words.  The  best  written  speech  in 
Mrs.  Marks's  The  Piper  —  the  address  to  the 
wayside  image  —  is,  dramatically,  an  error ;  it  is 
written  charmingly,  but  a  master  of  dramatic 
literature  would  not  have  written  it  at  all.  Super- 
natural plays  afford  their  authors  opportunities 
for  verbal  flights  of  fancy  which  are  denied  to 
authors  who  aim  to  paraphrase  the  speech  of 
ordinary  men  and  women ;  but  the  task  of  the 
latter  is  no  less  a  feat  of  literary  art.  A  greater 
literary  imagination  is  displayed  in  these  bare,  un- 
decorative  lines  of  the  first  act  of  The  Thunder- 
holt  —  "  Ah,  Heath,  the  dining  room  — ! "  "  Yes, 
Mr.  Elkin,  that's  over,  sir "  —  lines  through 
which,  as  they  come  to  us  in  their  context,  the  full 
pathos  of  death  looks  out  upon  us  with  dim,  un- 


THE  SUPERNATURAL  DRAMA      117 

weeping  eyes,  than  in  such  a  line  as  M.  Rostand's, 
"  Que  des  Coqs  rococos  pour  ce  Coq  plus  cocassCy^ 
of  which  the  only  ground  is  an  astounding  re- 
bound of  sound. 

In  one  particular  respect,  supernatural  ma- 
terial is  especially  hazardous  for  the  dramatic 
artist.  The  corner-stone  of  the  dramatic  art  is 
the  freedom  of  the  will.  No  conflict  of  wills  can 
afford  a  true  dramatic  interest  unless  the  wills 
of  the  participants  are  absolutely  free.  Now,  if, 
in  a  story,  certain  characters  are  endowed  with 
supernatural  powers,  while  the  others  are  not,  no 
truly  dramatic  conflict  can  be  possible  between  the 
one  side  and  the  other.  We  are  asked  to  watch  a 
game  in  which  we  know  the  dice  are  loaded.  In  the 
last  act  of  The  Faun,  by  Mr,  Edward  Knoblauch, 
the  other  characters  are  merely  puppets  whose  wires 
are  pulled  by  the  supernatural  hero ;  and  in  The 
Piper  the  people  of  Hamelin  are  at  all  times  power- 
less against  the  magic  of  the  mountebank.  These 
conceptions  abnegate  the  very  possibility  of 
drama.  If,  then,  a  playwright  is  to  use  the  super- 
natural at  all,  it  is  surely  wiser  for  him  not  to 
adulterate  it  with  the  natural,  but  to  conceive  all 
his  characters  in  accordance  with  a  common  con- 
vention. This  is  what  M.  Rostand  has  done  in 
Chantecler.  His  characters  all  have  a  fair  chance, 
because  all  are  equally  super-actual.  He  has  dis- 
played consummate  tact  in  entirely  excluding  hu- 


118         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

man  beings  from  his  story  —  a  tact  which  ex- 
presses itself  very  cleverly  in  the  concluding  line, 
"  Chut!  Baissez  le  rideau,  vite! — Voila  les 
hommes!  " 

It  is  probable  that  Chantecler  would  have  suc- 
ceeded in  Paris  if  Coquelin  had  lived  to  play  it ; 
butt  it  is  not  surprising  that  in  the  hands  of  M. 
Lucien  Guitry  —  an  admirable  actor  of  modern 
roles  but  not  an  eloquent  elocutionist  —  it  actually 
failed ;  for  of  the  six  theatric  poems  of  M.  Rostand 
it  is  assuredly  the  least  dramatic.  It  is  not  so 
much  a  play^  as  a  lyrico-satirical  extravaganza. 
We  may  best  bring  ourselves  to  understand  its 
special  quality  if  we  view  it  as  a  result  of  the  logi- 
cal and  natural  development  of  those  tendencies 
which  M.  Rostand  exhibited  in  his  earlier  works. 
M.  Rostand  is  the  most  successful  playwright  of 
the  present  age ;  but  it  has  been  evident  from  the 
outset  of  his  career  that  he  is  by  instinct  less  a 
dramatist  than  a  theatricist.  He  conceives  a  play 
not  as  a  serene  and  orderly  development  of  a 
single  inherent  dramatic  idea,  but  as  an  agglom- 
eration of  a  myriad  of  isolate  theatrical  effects. 
His  eagerness  for  effective  moments  —  or  mo- 
mentary effects  —  stamps  him  of  the  race  and 
lineage  of  Victor  Hugo ;  like  Hugo,  he  makes  a 
play  by  stringing  together  a  multitude  of  star- 
tling theatrical  devices.  The  defect  of  this  method 
is  that,  as  it  is  developed,  it  leads  to  greater  in- 


THE  SUPERNATURAL  DRAMA      119 

tricacy  —  whereas  the  tendency  of  the  highest 
dramaturgic  art  is  always  toward  a  greater  sim- 
plicity. The  simplest  —  the  most  classic  —  of 
his  works  is  La  Samaritaine.  Already  in  Cyrano 
it  was  evident  that  he  would  become  progressively 
more  intricate  from  work  to  work.  UAiglon  in- 
dicated still  more  emphatically  his  developing 
avidity  for  multifarious  detail.  And  now  at  last 
in  Chantecler  we  can  no  longer  see  the  forest  for 
the  trees  —  or  rather,  for  the  wildwood  under- 
growth which  riots  in  profuse  entanglement.  The 
dramatic  theme  in  Chantecler  is  the  tale  of  the 
eternal  struggle  of  the  artist,  possessed  with  a 
sense  of  the  sacred  necessity  of  his  mission,  to 
adjust  himself  to  a  society  that  fails  to  understand 
him  and  to  accept  him  at  his  own  self-valuation; 
but  this  theme  is  overgrown  with  a  myriad  minor 
satirical  intentions  —  the  satire  of  Boulevard 
cynicism  in  the  Blackbird,  of  social  pretension  in 
the  Guinea-Hen,  of  academic  criticism  of  poetry 
in  the  Chickens,  of  pedantry  in  the  Woodpecker, 
of  literary  criticism  of  music  in  the  chorus  of 
Toads,  of  estheticism  in  the  Peacock,  of  what 
may  be  called  George-Sand-ism  in  the  Pheasant- 
Hen,  and  so  on  ad  inftnitum.  Unless  we  had 
clearly  understood  his  progressive  trend  toward 
unnecessary  intricacy,  we  might  easily  have  won- 
dered why  M.  Rostand  should  have  bothered  to  in- 
vent the  whole  elaborate  machinery  of  his  ma^i' 


120         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

fied  barnyard  to  serve  as  a  vehicle  for  satirizing 
such  every-day  foibles  as  all  these.  Surely  it 
would  have  been  not  only  simpler  but  much  fun- 
nier to  exhibit  a  society  woman  behaving  like  a 
guinea-hen  —  as  Heaven  knows  how  many  do  !  — 
than  to  set  forth  a  guinea-hen  behaving  like  a 
society  woman. 

The  same  increasing  intricacy  that  M.  Rostand 
has  exhibited  as  a  playwright  he  has  displayed 
also  as  a  poet.  His  earliest  pieces,  like  Les 
Romanesques,  revealed  him  as  a  new  Theodore  de 
Banville,  a  writer  of  pretty  and  witty  verses, 
dainty  and  dallying,  delicate  and  deft.  His  gifts 
were  those  of  a  minor,  rather  than  a  major,  poet; 
and  if  he  has  since  developed  the  magnitude  of  the 
major  poet,  he  has  done  so  by  the  unprecedented 
process  of  raising  his  gifts  of  the  minor  poet  to 
the  wth  power.  He  is  a  big  poet  only  by  virtue 
of  being  the  largest  of  the  little  poets  of  the 
world.  His  supreme  merit — and  his  supreme  de- 
fect —  is  cleverness.  He  is  hardly  an  imaginative 
writer;  but  he  has  the  most  fertile  and  the  most 
luxuriant  fancy  apparent  in  contemporary  litera- 
ture. He  has  achieved  serenity  of  mood  only  in 
La  Samaritaine,  wherein  an  ecstasy  of  simplicity 
was  imposed  upon  him  by  the  sanctity  of  his  ma- 
terial. In  his  other  works  he  has  shown  himself 
always  a  chaser  after  butterflies.  Even  Cyrano, 
in  his  love  scene,  must  define  a  kiss  as  "  a  rosy 


THE  SUPERNATURAL  DRAMA      121 

dot  upon  the  eye  of  loving  "  —  a  quip  unimag- 
inable if  the  poet-hero  were  really  and  deeply 
moved.  And  in  the  bewildering  verbiage  of 
Chantecler  the  extravagance  of  the  poet's  fancy 
is  developed  to  the  uttermost  excess.  In  his  ear- 
liest works  M.  Rostand  loved  to  intoxicate  himself 
with  words ;  and  the  habit  of  verbal  inebriety  has 
grown  upon  him,  until  in  Chantecler  nearly  ever^ 
line  seems  to  reel  with  a  bedazzlement  of  fantasy. 
Surely  this  is  dangerously  near  the  art  that  de- 
feats itself  by  being  too  artistic. 

In  the  published  text  of  Chantecler  the  stage- 
direction  which  describes  the  scenic  setting  of  each 
act  is  written  as  a  sonnet;  and  this  needless  au- 
dacity of  cleverness  gives  us  the  clue  to  M. 
Rostand's  quality  as  a  poet.  These  stage-direc- 
tions are  fully  as  poetic  as  the  text.  Consider  this 
concluding  tercet  of  the  description  of  the  setting 
for  the  second  act: 

Le  ciel  est  de  chez  nous.    Et  lorsque  illuminSe 
Fumera  dans  un  coin  quelque  humble  chemiufie, 
On  croira  voir  fumer  la  pipe  de  Corot. 

No  other  writer  could  have  fancied  that  "  smok- 
ing of  the  pipe  of  Corot "  —  and  no  other  poet 
would  have  considered  it  worth  while  to  do  so  in  a 
stage-direction.  M.  Rostand's  best  effects  are 
purely  effects  of  words.  His  wit  is  verbal,  his 
mirth  a  jugglery  of  sounds.     Even  his  poetry  is 


122         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

verbal ;  it  is  not  the  image  that  deh'ghts  us,  but 
the  verse.  Hence,  as  plays,  his  works  demand 
elocution  more  than  they  demand  acting ;  he  needed 
Coquelin  to  read  his  lines  with,  that  bravura  of 
incomparable  voice.  He  is  a  consummate  writer, 
surely ;  but  he  has  the  air  of  a  spoiled  child  sport- 
ing in  an  illimitable  play-room  where  all  the  toys 
are  words. 


XI 

THE  IRISH  NATIONAL  THEATRE 


Art  and  Nature  compete  eternally  with  each 
other  in  the  great  task  of  making  humanity  aware 
of  what  is  true  and  beautiful  and  good.  They 
are  the  two  teachers  in  this  school-room  of  a 
world  to  which  we  are  come  —  we  know  not  whence 
—  as  scholars ;  and  we  have  much  to  learn  from 
both  of  them  in  the  little  time  allotted  before 
school  is  suddenly  let  out  and  we  frolic  forth  — 
we  know  not  whither.  It  would  be  difficult  to 
judge  decisively  whether  Art  or  Nature  is  the 
greater  teacher.  Nature  has  more  to  tell  us,  but  \ 
Art  is  better  skilled  for  utterance.  Nature  has 
so  much  to  say  that  she  has  no  patience  for  articu- 
lation. She  thrills  us  with  a  vague  awareness  of 
multitudinous  indecipherable  messages ;  but  she 
speaks  to  us  in  whispers  and  in  thunders  —  elu- 
sive, indeterminate,  discomforting.  Art,  with  less 
to  say,  has  more  patience  for  the  formulation  of 
her  messages ;  she  speaks  to  us  in  a  voice  that 
has  been  deliberately  trained,  and  her  utterance  is 
lucid  and  precise.     She  does  not  try,  like  Nature, 

128 


124         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

to  tell  us  everything  at  once.  She  selects,  instead, 
some  single  definite  and  little  truth  to  tell  us  at  a 
time,  and  exerts  herself  to  speak  it  clearly.  We 
can  never  estimate  precisely  what  it  is  that  we 
have  learned  from  Nature ;  but  whenever  Art  has 
spoken  to  us,  we  know  exactly  what  we  have  been 
told.  Nature  stirs  and  tortures  us  to  a  mazy  ap- 
prehension of  illimitables ;  but  Art  contents  us 
with  careful  limitations  and  calms  us  with  achieved 
lucidity. 

But,  in  this  compensatory  universe,  every  ad- 
vantage carries  with  it  a  concomitant  disadvan- 
tage. The  besetting  danger  to  the  usefulness  of 
Art  as  a  teacher  of  mankind  lurks  inherent  in  this 
very  capacity  for  orderly  articulation.  Art  is 
only  human,  after  all,  and  is  liable  to  the  human 
sin  of  vanity.  More  and  more,  as  Art  advances 
in  efficiency  of  utterance,  she  tends  to  take  de- 
light in  listening  to  the  sound  of  her  own  voice ; 
she  tends  to  value  method  more  dearly  than  ma- 
terial; she  tends  to  forget  that  the  thing  to  be 
said  is  immeasurably  more  important  than  any 
gracefulness  in  saying  it.  Thus  artistry,  as  it 
advances  toward  perfection,  destroj's  its  purpose 
and  defeats  itself. 

Whenever  artistry  becomes  too  cleverly  and 
nicely  organized,  whenever  Art  succumbs  to  the 
vanity  of  sclf-consciousncss,  it  is  necessary  that 
seekers  for  the  truth  should  forsake  Art  and  re- 


THE  IRISH  NATIONAL  THEATRE     125 

turn  to  Nature.  At  such  a  time  the  really  earnest 
scholar  will  throw  away  his  books  and  seek  his 
reading  in  the  running  brooks.  Humanity  ad- 
vances not  along  a  straight  line  but  along  a  cir- 
culating spiral ;  it  progresses  through  a  series  of 
revolutions  and  reversions ;  and  the  motive  of 
every  progressive  revolution  is  the  recurrent 
yearning  to  return  to  Nature.  "  Let  us  return 
to  >^ure !  Let  us  turn  backward  in  order  to 
moverorward  !  "  —  this  has  been  the  watchword 
of  the  revolutionists  in  every  age  when  Art  has 
grown  inefficient  through  efficiency.  There  is  no 
other  way  than  this  to  cure  the  vanity  of  Art  and 

Tike  her  useful  once  again. 
We  live  at  present  in  an  age  when  the  dramatic 
art  has  attained  a  technical  efficiency  which  has 
never  been  approached  before  in  the  whole  history 
of  the  theatre.  Our  best-made  plays  are  better 
made  than  those  of  any  other  period.  Consider 
for  a  moment  the  craftsmanship  displayed  in  such 
a  work  as  that  ultimate  monument  of  intensive 
artistry,  The  Thunderbolt,  of  Sir  Arthur  Pinero. 
There  is  no  play  of  Shakespeare's  that  is  so  stag- 
geringly admirable  in  every  last  and  least  detail 
of  technical  adjustment.  When  artistry  has  gone 
so  far  as  this  there  is  nothing  more  for  it  to  do. 
/Such  accomplishment  defeats  itself,  for  it  leaves 
the  artist  nothing  further  to  accomplish.  What 
is  to  be   done  when  we   are   brought   to   such  a 


126         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

period?  .  .  .  There  can  be  but  one  answer  to  that 
question :  —  Let  us  return  to  Nature. 

For  it  is  evident  that,  though  Art  has  taught 
our  present  playwrights  more  than  she  ever  taught 
their  predecessors,  Nature  has  taught  them  less. 
Our  drama  is  too  technical;  our  dramatists  care 
more  for  artistry  than  they  care  for  life.  The 
highest  pleasure  that  we  may  derive  from  the  con- 
temporary drama  at  its  best  is  the  critical  pleasure 
of  following  point  by  point  the  unfaltei4^  de- 
velopment of  a  faultless  pattern.  But  the  theatre 
—  as  we  know  from  Sophocles  and  Shakespeare  and 
Moliere  —  is  capable  of  affording  a  greater  pleas- 
ure than  this,  —  a  pleasure  less  critical  and  more 
creative.  Our  contemporary  plays  are  masterly  in 
method,  but  comparatively  unimportant  in  ma- 
terial. It  is  a  sign  of  their  essential  insignificance 
that  they  tell  us  truths  that  are  not  even  beauti- 
ful ;  for  it  is  only  when  truth  has  ascended  to  that 
level  where  —  as  in  the  vision  of  Keats  —  it  be- 
comes identical  with  beauty,  that  it  is,  in  any  real 
sense,  worth  the  telling.  Our  drama  deals  mainly 
with  the  artificial  emotions  of  super-civilized  aris- 
tocrats who  dwell  in  cities :  it  sets  before  us  a 
Criticism  of  Society  instead  of  the  Romance  of 
Man.' 

When  we  have  dwelt  for  many  months  in  a 
metropolis,  and  dressed  for  dinner  every  night, 
and  exchanged  small  talk  concerning  trivialities, 


THE  IRISH  NATIONAL  THEATRE     127 

and  grown  exceedingly  clever  and  witty  and 
graceful  and  urbane,  there  comes  a  time  for 
us  to  break  away  —  it  is  the  time  when  vio- 
lets are  peeping  —  to  far  places  where  people 
have  no  manners,  w^hcre  they  talk  from  the  heart 
instead  of  from  the  head  and  where  a  wide  earth 
is  swept  with  winds  all  murmurous  with  whispers 
from  the  sea,  and  at  night  there  is  a  sky  of  many 
stars. — The  theatre  has  its  seasons  also;  and 
/when  the  drama  has  grown  too  clever  and  urbane, 
too  artistic  and  too  trivial,  it  is  time  to  break 
away..]  For,  somewhere,  terrific  seas  are  surging 
on  forlorn  coasts  far  away,  and  simple  folk  are 
making  music  to  each  other  in  imaginative  speech. 
Let  us  then  be  riders  to  the  sea,  and  wander  till 
we  meet  a  playboy,  talking  deep  love  in  the  shadow 
of  a  glen. 

n 

These  general  considerations  must  be  held  in 
mind  as  we  turn  our  critical  attention  to  the  aims 
and  achievements  of  the  Irish  National  Theatre 
Society.  This  society  w^as  organized  in  1901  by 
Mr.  William  Butler  Yeats  and  Lady  Augusta 
Gregory.  The  founders  had  two  purposes  in  view : 
—  first,  to  develop  a  drama  that  should  be  dis- 
tinctly national,  so  that  Ireland  might  have  a 
voice  in  the  concerted  theatre  of  the  world,  and 
second,  to   reachieve   a  union   between   truth   and 


128         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

beauty  in  the  drama  by  effecting  a  return  to 
nature,  in  both  material  and  method.  In  practice, 
these  two  purposes  soon  proved  themselves  to  be 
identical;  for  both  the  authors  and  the  actors 
found  that  the  surest  method  for  accomplishing 
the  first  was  to  devote  themselves  enthusiastically 
to  the  second. 

These  Irish  idealists  at  once  rejected  from  their 
range  of  subject-matter  all  themes  suggested  by 
the  life  of  cities  and  by  the  manners  of  what  are 
called  the  upper  classes,  —  first,  because  such  ma- 
terial was  not  definitively  Irish,  and  second,  be- 
cause it  was  not  —  in  any  deep  sense  —  human. 
Facility  of  intercommunication  has  made  every 
modern  metropolis  more  cosmopolitan  than  na- 
tional ;  and  to  seek  the  heart  of  any  country  it  is 
now  necessary  to  delve  into  aloof  and  rural  dis- 
tricts. Furthermore,  our  modern  civilization  — 
which  is  largely  artificial  —  has  refined  the  higher 
classes  of  society  to  such  a  point  that  they  now 
ignore,  or  cynically  smile  upon,  those  basic,  im- 
pulsive, and  primordial  emotions  that  spring  spon- 
taneously from  the  heart  of  man. 

The  Irish  authors  decided  also,  from  the  outset, 
to  revolt  against  that  tyranny  of  merely  technical 
achievement  to  which  the  international  contempo- 
rary drama  is  subservient.  This  is  an  age  of  plot 
and  stage-direction,  —  of  emotion  evidenced  in 
action,  of  action  elucidated  to  the  eye  by  every 


THE  IRISH  NATIONAL  THEATRE     129 

deliberate  aid  to  visual  illusion.  The  Irish  play- 
wrights would  have  none  of  this.  Not  plot,  but 
character,  was  what  they  chose  to  care  about,  since 
people  are  more  real  than  incidents.  They  re- 
nounced the  technical  empery  of  plot,  and  re- 
jected the  tradition  of  the  well-made  play.  If 
they  could  reveal  character  sufficiently  in  situa- 
tion, they  did  not  consider  it  a  further  duty  to 
set  it  forth  in  action.  They  did  not  deem  it  neces- 
sary to  rely  on  stage-direction  to  convince  the  eye, 
since  they  could  revert  to  an  earlier  stage  of  the 
development  of  the  drama  and  rely  on  eloquence 
of  writing  to  convince  the  ear.  They  chose  to 
make  a  drama  that  is  less  visual  and  more  auditory 
than  that  to  which  we  have  become  commonly  ac- 
customed in  the  international  theatre  of  to-day. 
They  decided  that  the  surest  way  to  return  to 
nature  was  to  return  to  literature. 

Actuated  by  these  aims,  the  Irish  playwrights 
found,  in  the  peasant  life  of  Ireland,  innumerable 
subjects  made  to  their  hand.  That  life  was  at  once 
definitively  national  and  primordially  human.  By 
geographical  position  and  by  historical  isolation, 
that  emerald  island  floating  in  the  far  Atlantic 
has  remained  the  utter  outpost  of  European 
civilization.  Only  the  larger  cities  have  been  an- 
nexed —  in  any  real  sense  —  to  the  British  Em- 
pire; only  the  aristocracy  is  cosmopolitan.  The 
peasants  of  the  rural  counties  are  not  Saxon,  but 


130         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

Celtic  in  ancestry  and  temperament ;  and  the  life 
of  those  aloof  and  desultory  districts  is  not  mod- 
ern, but  early  medieval.  The  far,  forgotten 
islands  that  are  washed  by  the  isolating  western 
sea  are  populated  with  a  peasantry  who  have 
escaped  the  long  and  gradual  advance  of  time  and 
who,  defended  from  modernity,  still  play  around 
the  nursery  of  this  grown-up  and  over-wearied 
world.  Age  has  not  withered  them,  nor  custom 
staled.  They  love  and  hate  and  worship  and  blas- 
pheme like  little  children,  gloriously  irresponsive 
to  the  calming  and  adult  dictates  of  modem  civili- 
zation, and  panged  with  the  terrible  and  thrilling 
growing-pains  of  the  primeval  human  soul. 

And,  by  a  providential  accident,  these  crude, 
uncultured  people  speak  to  each  other  with  an 
easy  eloquence  that  hovers  only  a  little  lower  than 
the  speech  of  angels.  They  have  not  yet,  as  we 
have,  filed  and  simplified  their  speech  to  a  worka- 
day and  placid  prose.  Their  words  have  longer 
memories  than  ours,  and  float  forth  trailing  clouds 
of  glory.  Their  common  speaking  surges  with  a 
tidal  chant,  like  that  of  the  recurrent  singing  of 
the  sea.  When  Wordsworth,  leading  his  own 
lonely  and  much-ridiculed  return  to  Nature, 
sought  to  restrict  the  utterance  of  poetry  to  the 
daily  speech  of  dalesmen,  lie  lost  his  aim  amid  a 
diction  inadequate  to  tlie  occasion ;  and,  for  his 
greater  sonnets,  he  found  himself  necessitated  to 


THE  IRISH  NATIONAL  THEATRE     131 

revert  to  the  language  of  the  mental  aristocracy. 
But  the  language  of  Lady  Gregory  and  J.  M. 
Synge  is  unfalteringly  eloquent;  and  Synge,  in  his 
prefaces,  and  Lady  Gregory,  in  her  conversations, 
have  both  assured  us  that  they  have  used  no  words 
in  their  writings  that  they  have  not  heard  falling 
naturally  from  the  lips  of  Irish  peasants  incapable 
of  reading  or  of  signing  their  own  names.  Thus, 
in  returning  to  Nature,  they  discovered  a  well- 
spring  ebullient  with  poetry.  Faring  forth  to 
seek  tlie  true,  they  found  the  beautiful. 

in 

Such  being  the  purposes  of  the  founders  of  the 
Irish  National  Theatre  Society,  it  was  evident 
from  the  outset  that  they  could  not  intrust  the 
presentation  of  their  plays  to  professional  Lon- 
don actors  trained  to  other  aims.  They  therefore 
organized  a  company  of  their  own,  composed  of 
young  men  and  women  engaged  in  various  busi- 
nesses in  Dublin,  who  were  eager  to  devote  their 
leisure  hours  to  the  pleasant  exercise  of  acting. 
This  company,  in  origin,  was  amateur;  and  it  was 
not  till  1904,  when  it  became  established  per- 
manently at  the  Abbey  Theatre,  that  it  grew  to 
be  professional.  In  spirit,  the  Abbey  Theatre 
Players  are  still  amateur;  and  this  is  said,  of 
course,  in  praise  of  them.  It  is  evident  that  they 
act  for  the  love  of  acting.     It  would  seem  to  be 


1S2         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

their  motto  that  "  no  one  shall  work  for  money, 
and  no  one  shall  work  for  fame,  but  each  for  the 
joy  of  the  working."  Fame  and  money  have  been 
added  unto  them  in  recent  years,  for  they  have 
captured  London  and  set  siege  to  Boston  and 
Chicago  and  New  York;  but  it  is  apparent  from 
their  work  that  they  are  inspired  still,  as  ever, 
with  the  joy  of  working.  And  this  is  the  main 
reason  why  their  artless  artistry  is  charming;  for 
there  is  nothing  more  enjoyable  than  joy. 

Their  acting  is  so  different  from  ours,  in  aim, 
in  spirit,  and  in  method,  that  there  can  be  no 
profit  in  arguing  as  to  whether  it  is  better  or 
whether  it  is  not  so  good.  Their  stage-direction 
is  elementary  and  casual.  They  are  sparing  of 
gesticulation.  They  care  far  less  than  we  do 
about  making  appealing  pictures  to  the  eye;  and 
they  care  far  more  than  we  do  about  the  delicate, 
alluring  art  of  reading.  They  never  move  about 
the  stage  unnecessarily,  in  the  fancied  interest  of 
visual  variety ;  often,  for  long  passages,  they 
merely  sit  still,  or  stand  about,  and  talk.  But, 
with  them  the  lines  are  all-important.  Their 
plays  are  written  eloquently ;  and  they  repeat  this 
written  eloquence  with  an  affectionate  regard  for 
rhythm  and  the  harmony  of  words. 

Character,  not  action,  is  the  dominant  element 
in  the  Irish  plays ;  and  it  is  therefore  not  surpris- 
ing that  the  Irish  Players  are  inferior  to  our  own 


THE  IRISH  NATIONAL  THEATRE     133 

in  representing  rapid  and  emphatic  action,  and 
superior  in  the  deliberate  and  gradual  portraiture 
of  personality.  All  the  Irish  Players  are  what 
are  called,  in  the  slang  of  the  theatre,  character 
actors.  But  they  draw  their  portraits  mainly  by 
the  means  of  speech,  and  rely  far  less  than  we 
do  on  make-up  and  facial  expression.  With  them, 
as  with  their  authors,  the  drama  has  returned  to 
literature. 

IV 

We  may  now  examine  several  of  the  most  char- 
acteristic pieces  in  the  repertory  which  the  Abbey 
Theatre  Players  have  presented,  in  recent  seasons, 
in  America ;  and,  first  of  all,  it  will  be  pleasant  to 
turn  our  attention  to  the  one-act  plays  of  Lady 
Gregory.  In  the  sense  of  the  word  to  which  we 
have  grown  accustomed  in  the  conventional  the- 
atre, these  delightful  little  sketches  are  scarcely 
plays  at  all.  It  would  be  more  precise  to  speak 
of  them  as  anecdotes.  The  author  sets  forth  two 
or  three  characters  in  a  single  situation,  and 
draws  them  thoroughly  in  dialogue;  she  does  not 
seem  to  care  especially  whether  the  incident  which 
reveals  the  characters  is  active  or  passive;  she 
does  not  work  the  situation  up  to  any  emphatic 
climax;  but  having  opened  a  momentary  little 
vista  upon  life,  she  smilingly  remarks  "  That's 
all "  and  rings  the  curtain  down.  Her  vision  is 
both  poetical  and  humorous;  she  enjoys  the  rare 


134         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

endowment  of  sagacity ;  and  she  writes  with  elo- 
quence and  ease. 

Spreading  the  News  is  a  good-natured  satire  of 
the  extravagant  growth  of  gossip  among  people 
whose  imagination  is  stronger  than  their  common 
sense.  A  farmer  forgets  his  pitch-fork,  on  the 
outskirts  of  a  fair;  and  a  second  farmer,  finding 
it,  hurries  after  to  return  it  to  him.  A  bystander 
remarks  casually  to  a  deaf  old  apple-woman  that 
Bartley  Fallon  is  running  after  Jack  Smith  with  a 
pitch-fork.  The  apple-woman  tells  some  one  else 
that  Fallon  has  attacked  Smith  with  murderous 
intent.  The  story  grows  and  grows  as  it  passes 
from  mouth  to  mouth,  until  an  assembled  crowd 
believe  that  Smith  is  slain  and  invent  a  number  of 
plausible  motives  for  the  murder.  The  rumor 
reaches  the  ears  of  the  police;  and  Fallon  is  ar- 
rested, protesting  vainly  against  the  embattled 
certainty  of  the  accusing  public.  Then  Smith 
strolls  back,  safe  and  sound,  and  finds  it  difficult 
to  convince  the  crowd  that  he  is  not  a  ghost. 

The  Workhouse  Ward  is  a  deliciously  sagacious 
bit  of  humorous  characterization.  Two  old  pau- 
pers are  discovered  lying  in  adjacent  beds.  They 
have  been  lifelong  friends ;  but  now,  having  noth- 
ing else  to  do,  they  spend  their  entire  time  in 
arguing  and  quarreling.  To  one  of  them  tliere 
comes  an  opportunity  to  leave  the  workhouse  and 
be  cared  for  in  a  comfortable  home ;  but  he  de- 


THE  IRISH  NATIONAL  THEATRE     135 

clines  this  opportunity  because  the  offer  is  not 
extended  also  to  his  friend,  the  other  pauper.  Im- 
mediately afterward,  the  inseparable  cronies  fall 
once  more  to  altercation,  and  beat  each  other 
eagerly  over  the  head  with  pillows. 

There  is  less  humor  and  more  sentiment  in  The 
Rising  of  the  Moon.  A  constable  is  guarding  a 
quay  from  which  it  is  expected  that  a  fleeing  po- 
litical prisoner  will  endeavor  to  escape  to  sea. 
There  is  a  large  reward  upon  the  prisoner's  head, 
and  his  apprehension  would  also  mean  promotion 
for  the  constable.  An  itinerant  ballad-singer  ap- 
pears, sits  back  to  back  with  the  constable  upon 
a  barrel-head  set  lonely  in  the  streaming  of  the 
moon,  and  sings  him  many  songs  which  strum 
upon  the  chords  of  memory  and  remind  him  of  his 
childhood  and  his  home.  Having  tuned  the  con- 
stable to  a  proper  key  of  sentiment,  the  ballad- 
singer  confesses  that  he  is  the  fleeing  prisoner; 
and  the  constable,  scarcely  knowing  why,  connives 
at  his  escape. 

In  The  Gaol  Gate  Lady  Gregory  has  turned  to 
tragedy  and  written  in  a  somber  mood.  Outside 
the  gate  of  Galway  Gaol,  the  mother  and  the  wife 
of  a  prisoner  make  lamentation,  because  he  has, 
as  they  think,  saved  his  own  neck  by  betraying 
his  companions.  The  Gate-keeper  unwittingly 
contributes  to  this  belief  of  theirs  by  telling  them 
that  the  prisoner  has  died  in  hospital.     He  gives 


136         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

them  the  dead  man's  clothes ;  and  over  these  they 
make  a  melancholy  keening.  But  later  they  dis- 
cover that  the  Gate-keeper  has  lied  to  them  and 
that  the  prisoner  has  in  reality  been  hanged.  He 
had  not  sold  his  friends  to  purchase  immunity  for 
himself:  he  had  died  gloriously,  after  all.  And 
now  the  two  women  lift  their  voices  high  in  praise 
of  him,  chanting  the  grim  glory  of  his  doom.  — 
This  little  tragedy  is  written  in  a  very  regular 
rhythm ;  and  the  keening  of  the  women  reminds 
the  ear  of  the  forlorn  falling  of  many  of  the  an- 
cient Hebrew  psalms  and  lamentations. 

Another  of  the  Irish  dramatists,  named  William 
Boyle,  has  displayed  a  great  gift  for  humorous 
characterization.  In  his  three-act  comedy,  The 
Building  Fund,  a  miserly  old  woman  is  shown 
clinging  passionately  to  her  gathered  wealth  upon 
the  very  verge  of  death.  Her  son  is  just  as 
miserly  as  she  is,  and  has  been  waiting  all  his  life 
for  her  to  die.  As  her  end  approaches,  he  suffers 
a  panic  fear  lest  she  may  be  persuaded  to  give  a 
little  something  to  his  niece ;  and,  to  avert  this 
calamity,  he  induces  her  to  make  a  will.  After 
her  death,  the  parsimonious  son  discovers,  to  his 
consternation,  that  —  with  grim,  sardonic  humor 
—  she  has  left  all  her  money  to  the  parish  build- 
ing fund. 

The  Mineral  WorTicrs,  by  the  same  author,  deals 
with  the  efforts  of  an  energetic  Irishman,  who  has 


THE  IRISH  NATIONAL  THEATRE     137 

emigrated  to  America  and  returned  thence  to  his 
native  township,  to  develop  a  mining  company  to 
work  out  a  vein  of  copper  that  he  has  discovered 
in  the  land.  He  has  to  contend  against  the  con- 
servatism of  the  peasants,  who  feel  that  the  land 
should  be  used  only,  as  it  always  has  been,  for 
superficial  cultivation,  and  the  active  opposition 
of  one  especially  hard-headed  farmer  who  for  a 
long  time  prevents  him  from  securing  the  water- 
rights  that  he  needs  for  power.  Almost  every 
trait  of  Irish  peasant  character  that  militates 
against  the  advance  of  modern  enterprise  is  satiri- 
cally elucidated  in  this  comedy.  The  plot  is  in- 
considerable ;  but,  as  in  The  Building  Fund,  the 
humor  of  characterization  is  rich. 

Mr.  T.  C.  Murray's  two-act  tragedy  called 
Birthright  offers  a  revelation  of  a  state  of  char- 
acter rather  than  a  resolution  of  a  dramatic  com- 
plication ;  but  it  flares  up  into  sudden  violent  ac- 
tion at  the  end.  It  is  a  study  of  the  hatred  sub- 
sisting between  two  brothers  of  contrasted  tem- 
peraments. The  elder  is  an  easy-going,  pleasure- 
loving  lad;  the  younger  is  more  industrious  and 
commonplace.  Their  father,  in  anger  at  the  elder, 
transfers  his  birthright  to  the  younger  son ;  and 
this  leads  to  a  quarrel  between  the  two  brothers. 
There  is  a  tragic  figlit  by  firelight;  and  the 
younger  slowly  strangles  his  elder  brother  with 
his  hands. 


138         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

These  plays  are  sufficiently  indicative  of  the 
materials  and  methods  of  the  Irish  dramatists,  and 
represent  the  general  level  of  their  accomplish- 
ment. But  we  have  still  to  consider  the  work  of 
the  one  indubitable  genius  that  the  Irish  Na- 
tional Theatre  has  yet  given  to  the  world. 


There  is  a  poem  of  Walt  Whitman's  in  the 
course  of  which  he  says,  —  "  O  what  is  it  in  me 
that  makes  me  tremble  so  at  voices  ?  —  Surely, 
whoever  speaks  to  me  in  the  right  voice,  him  or 
her  I  shall  follow,  as  the  water  follows  the  moon, 
silently,  with  fluid  steps,  anywhere  around  the 
globe." 

The  first  thing  to  be  said  about  the  dead  and 
deathless  poet,  John  M.  Synge,  is  that  he  spoke 
to  the  world  in  the  right  voice.  He  wrote  with  an 
incomparable  eloquence.  In  the  rolling  glory  of 
his  sentences  there  is  a  rhythm  as  of  waters  fol- 
lowing the  moon.  His  words  are  immemorial  and 
homely,  ancestral,  simple,  quaint ;  they  glow  with 
gladness  as  they  meet  each  other ;  and  eagerly 
they  glide  along  in  rhythms,  now  lilting  with 
laughter,  now  languorous  with  melancholy,  mak- 
ing evermore  sweet  music  to  the  ear. 

But  Synge  is  a  great  poet  not  only  by  virtue  of 
his  noble  gift  of  style.  He  deeply  felt  the  poetry, 
the   pathos,   the  tragedy,  the   humor,   of  the   in- 


THE  IRISH  NATIONAL  THEATRE     139 

congrulty  between  the  littleness  of  human  actual- 
ity and  the  immensity  of  human  dreams.  He 
writes  of  illusions  and  of  disillusionments.  Illu- 
sions are  beautiful  and  funny ;  disillusionments 
are  beautiful  and  sad.  Life  is  at  once  pathetic 
and  uproarious,  being,  as  it  is,  a  vanity  of  vani- 
ties :  it  is  at  once  appalling  and  consolatory,  being, 
as  it  also  is,  as  glorious  as  imagining  can  make  it. 
What  would  one  have.-^  .  .  .  Life,  with  all  its 
faults ;  life,  with  all  its  virtues ;  there  is  no  greater 
gift  than  life.  And  now  that  Synge  is  dead,  we 
may  write  of  him,  in  Mr.  Kipling's  words,  "  He 
liked  it  all !  " 

Synge's  continual  balancing  of  illusion  against 
disillusionment  —  a  weighing  in  which  each  is 
found  wanting,  and  yet  ennobled  by  a  sad  and 
funny  beauty  all  its  own  —  is  exhibited  most 
clearly  in  his  three-act  parable  entitled  The  Well 
of  the  Saints.  It  would  seem  that  the  lot  of  Mar- 
tin and  Mary  Doul  was  most  unfortunate ;  and  yet 
it  has  its  compensations.  Both  of  them  are  blind ; 
they  are  aged,  bent,  and  ugly ;  and  they  gather  up 
a  bare  subsistence  by  begging  at  the  wayside.  But 
each  of  them  has  a  dream  of  the  world  and  what 
it  looks  like  to  those  with  eyes  to  see ;  and, 
dreaming  in  the  darkness,  they  have  molded  an 
imaginable  scheme  of  things  very  nearly  to  their 
heart's  desire.  Each  of  them,  for  instance,  be- 
lieves the  other  to  be  young  and  lovely  to   the 


140         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

sight.  They  think  the  world  unfalteringly  fair, 
illumined  by  a  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or  land. 

To  them,  contented  thus  in  discontent,  there 
comes  a  wandering  friar  who  is  able  to  work 
miracles.  He  anoints  their  eyes  with  holy  water, 
and  restores  to  them  the  dubious  gift  of  sight. 
Martin  seeks  his  wife  among  the  young  and  glow- 
ing girls  who  have  been  gathered  by  the  rumor  of 
the  miracle,  and  is  startled  at  last  to  find  his  Mary 
ugly,  bent,  and  old.  Both  of  them  find  the  visible 
world  less  lovely  than  they  had  imagined  it  to  be; 
and  they  begin  to  long  once  more  for  the  fairer 
vistas  of  the  dream-illumined  dark.  Later  on,  their 
sight  grows  dim  again.  The  miracle  has  been  but 
temporary.  The  friar  returns,  to  anoint  their 
eyes  once  more ;  and  he  promises  that  this  time 
the  cure  will  be  permanent.  But  Martin  now  pre- 
fers the  visionary  world  of  blindness,  and  dashes 
the  holy  water  from  the  friar's  hand. 

There  is  a  deeper  poignancy  in  Synge's  terrible 
and  massive  one-act  tragedy  entitled  Riders  to  the 
Sea.  Old  Maurya  is  a  mother  of  men ;  and  it  has 
been  their  calling  to  ride  down  to  the  sea  with 
horses,  to  fare  forth  upon  the  sea  in  ships,  and 
to  be  overwhelmed  at  last  and  tumbled  shoreward 
by  rolling  desultory  waves.  Her  husband,  and  her 
husband's  father,  and  five  of  her  strong  sons,  have 
succumbed  successively  to  the  besieging  and  in- 
sidious sea.     Some  of  them  have  been  borne  home 


THE  IRISH  NATIONAL  THEATRE     141 

dripping  in  a  sail-cloth;  others  have  been  dashed 
unburied  on  forsaken  coasts.  Michael  has  only 
recently  been  washed  ashore  in  distant  Donegal. 
And  now  Bartley,  the  last  of  Maurya's  living  men- 
folk, is  about  to  ride  down  to  the  sea.  She  suffers 
a  dim  foreboding,  and  implores  him  not  to  go ; 
but  a  man  has  his  work  to  do,  and  Bartley  rides 
away,  mounted  on  a  gray  horse  and  leading  a  red 
pony  by  the  halter.  His  mother  walks  across 
fields  to  meet  him  by  the  way,  so  that  she  may 
give  him  the  blessing  that  she  had  withheld  when, 
manfully,  he  parted  from  her.  But  as  he  rides 
past,  she  sees  a  vision  of  the  dead  Michael  riding 
on  the  red  pony ;  and  she  comes  home  to  lament 
the  doom  that  is  foretold.  And  as  she  is  lament- 
ing, the  villagers  carry  to  her  something  dripping 
in  a  sail-cloth,  —  the  body  of  Bartley,  the  last  of 
all  her  sons,  whom  the  red  pony  has  jolted  into 
the  aware  and  waiting  sea.  Maurya,  confronted 
with  the  fact  of  ultimate  and  absolute  bereave- 
ment, ceases  to  lament,  and  succumbs  to  an  ap- 
palled serenity  of  acquiescence.  She  has  lost  all ; 
and  thereby  she  has  achieved  a  peace  that  passes 
understanding.  And  thus  it  is  she  speaks  at  the 
conclusion  of  the  tragedy: — "They're  all  gone 
now,  and  there  isn't  anything  more  the  sea  can  do  to 
me.  .  .  .  It's  a  great  rest  I'll  have  now,  and  it's 
time  surely.  .  .  .  No  man  at  all  can  be  living  for- 
ever, and  we  must  be  satisfied." 


142         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

In  the  Shadow  of  the  Glen  is  a  grimly  comic 
revelation  of  the  incongruitj'  between  life  as  it  is 
lived  and  life  as  it  is  longed  for.  Nora  Burke 
has  lived  unhappily  with  her  gruff  and  aged  hus- 
band, Dan,  in  a  lonely  cottage  far  away  among  the 
hills.  NoAv  Dan  is  lying  dead  in  bed ;  and  when  a 
casual  tramp  appears,  seeking  food  in  that  far 
cottage,  Nora  tells  him  of  the  thwarted  longings 
of  the  years  that  she  has  wasted.  A  3'oung  herd- 
boy  comes  to  woo  her;  but  after  he  has  spoken, 
the  hated  Dan  sits  up  in  bed  and  makes  it  known 
that  his  apparent  death  was  but  a  sham.  He  or- 
ders Nora  out  of  his  house ;  and  the  timid  herd- 
boy  ranks  himself  expediently  on  the  husband's 
side.  Nora  goes,  indeed,  —  but  not  alone ;  for  the 
irresponsible  and  roving  tramp  goes  with  her. 
There  is  something  still  to  seek  in  the  adventurous 
and  hospitable  world  beyond  the  shadow  of  the 
glen. 

But  Synge's  masterpiece  is  that  uproarious  and 
splendid  comedy  that  is  greatly  named  The  Play- 
hoy  of  the  Western  World.  It  satirizes,  with 
poetic  sympathy,  the  danger  that  besets  an  airy, 
imaginative  temperament,  unballasted  with  cul- 
ture, to  lose  itself  in  divagations  of  extravagant 
absurdity.  The  action  passes  among  the  whimsi- 
cal and  dreaming  peasants  on  the  coast  of  Mayo. 
A  lonely  lad  with  a  queer,  fantastic  strain  in  his 
soul —  an  essential  romantic  launched  amid  a  daily 


THE  IRISH  NATIONAL  THEATRE     143 

life  that  bewilders  him  with  trivialities  —  having 
submitted  for  a  long  time  to  the  tyranny  of  a 
hard-headed  father  who  despises  him,  suddenly  — 
in  an  impulsive  moment  —  hits  him  heavily  over 
the  head  and  leaves  him  dying.  He  wanders, 
frightened  and  alone,  for  many  days,  and  ulti- 
mately stumbles  into  the  public-house  of  an  iso- 
lated hamlet.  Here,  when  he  furtively  tells  that 
he  has  killed  his  father,  he  finds  himself  looked 
upon  with  an  awe  that  soon  warms  to  admiration. 
Unexpectedly  —  and  for  the  first  time  in  his  life 
—  he  perceives  himself  regarded  as  a  hero.  This 
circumstance,  of  course,  unleashes  his  unballasted 
imagination.  He  tells  his  tragic  story  again  and 
yet  again,  embroidering  the  tale  of  persecution 
and  revolt  more  and  more  as  he  repeats  it,  until 
he  finds  himself  worshiped  by  all  the  women-folk 
for  his  spirit  and  his  savagery.  He  falls  in  love 
with  the  daughter  of  the  publican,  who  loves  him 
in  return  because  of  his  poetical  and  dauntless 
daring;  and  so  strong  is  the  stimulus  of  admira- 
tion that  he  wins  with  ease  the  various  athletic 
contests  that  are  competed  in  the  hamlet  on  the 
morrow.  But  at  the  height  of  his  wind-blown 
glory,  his  father  enters,  w'oundcd  but  unkilled, 
with  bandaged  head  and  brandished  stick,  to  order 
the  boy  about  as  in  the  meager  years  that  were. 
The  bubble  of  the  playboy's  fame  is  pricked ;  he 
is  not  a  hero   after  all;  and  the  simple-minded 


144         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

enthusiasts  who  lauded  him  now  laugh  at  him  with 
scorn.  This  is  more  than  he  can  stand.  In 
tragical  and  disillusioned  anguish,  he  once  again 
attacks  his  father,  —  this  time  in  the  sight  of  all. 
But  the  very  people  who  regarded  his  imagined 
parricide  as  an  heroic  act  when  they  were  merely 
told  about  it  in  romantic  narrative  now  consider 
the  playboy's  immediate  assault  upon  his  father 
as  a  dirty  deed.  They  noose  him  in  a  rope  and 
are  prepared  to  hang  him ;  and  he  is  saved  only 
by  the  fact  that  his  father  has  survived  a  second 
time.  Now,  "  in  the  end  of  all,"  he  has  no  friends ; 
even  the  lass  he  loves  has  turned  against  him ;  and 
he  is  doomed  to  return  home  with  his  father,  un- 
appreciated in  a  lonely  world.  But  he  has  had  his 
little  taste  of  glory ;  and  he  knows  that  henceforth 
he  will  rule  his  father,  and  "go  romancing  through 
a  romping  lifetime  from  this  hour  to  the  dawning 
of  the  judgment  day." 

But  no  summary  can  possibly  suggest  the 
imaginative  richness  of  this  comedy,  its  almost  un- 
exampled blend  of  poetry  and  humor,  its  rhythmic 
marshaling  of  fair  and  funny  phrases,  that  echo 
in  the  ear  like  laughing  music  over  waters.  The 
man  who  wrote  it  was  a  great  man,  for  verily  he 
has  spoken  to  us  in  the  right  voice ;  and  when,  in 
his  noon  of  years,  he  died  and  went  away,  we 
"  lost  the  only  playboy  of  the  western  world." 


XII 

THE  PERSONALITY  OF  THE 
PLAYWRIGHT 

In  all  the  arts  a  distinction  may  be  drawn  be- 
tween works  which  are  objective  and  impersonal 
and  works  which  are  personal  and  subjective. 
Creations  of  the  former  type  seem  to  have  sprung 
full-grown  from  their  creators'  minds,  like  Athena 
from  the  forehead  of  Zeus,  and  to  exist  thereafter 
as  independent  entities ;  whereas  creations  of  the 
latter  type  come  trailing  clouds  of  glory  from  the 
minds  that  made  them.  It  is  the  merit  of  certain 
works  of  art  that  they  tell  us  nothing  of  their 
makers ;  but  it  is  no  less  the  merit  of  others  that 
they  tell  us  a  great  deal.  It  would  surely  be  un- 
catholic  to  exalt  one  type  above  the  other;  and 
no  comparison  between  them  should  be  made  for 
any  purpose  less  disinterested  than  that  of  defini- 
tion. 

All  art  that  is  inefficient  is  impersonal,  either 
because  the  artist  has  no  personality  to  reveal 
or  because  he  lacks  the  power  to  reveal  what  per- 
sonality he  has ;  so  that  the  distinction  made  above 
becomes  valid  only  between  the  worthy  works  of 

145 


146         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

worthy  men.  Only  when  art  has  risen  to  the  level 
of  efficiency  can  the  question  arise  whether  the 
artist  shall  strive  to  keep  himself  out  of  his  work 
or  to  put  himself  into  it.  Of  these  two  endeavors, 
the  former  is  the  more  admirable  from  the  tech- 
nical standpoint,  but  the  latter  is  the  more  en- 
gaging from  the  standpoint  of  humanity. 

There  is  no  denying  that  the  supreme  and  per- 
fect works  of  art  belong  to  the  impersonal,  ob- 
jective type.  We  do  not  know  who  made  the 
Venus  of  Melos,  and  assuredly  we  do  not  care. 
The  nameless  sculptor  may  have  been  young  or 
middle-aged ;  he  may  have  been  athletic  and  so- 
ciable or  ascetic  and  morose;  he  may  have  loved 
drink,  or  he  may  even  have  been  a  vegetarian ;  the 
Venus  does  not  tell  us  and  we  do  not  want  to 
know.  We  read  the  Iliad  and  the  Odyssey  without 
really  caring  whether  Homer  was  a  man  or  a  syn- 
dicate of  balladists.  The  perfect  works  of  archi- 
tecture —  like  the  Doric  temple  at  Psestum,  the 
Roman  Corinthian  jewel-box  at  Nimes,  the  Sainte 
Chapelle  at  Paris  or  the  King's  College  Chapel  at 
Cambridge  —  are  entirely  impersonal :  they  tell  us 
a  great  deal  about  the  epoch  that  inspired  them, 
but  nothing  about  the  architects  who  designed 
them.  In  modern  fiction,  the  most  accomplished 
artists  have  worked  impersonall}'.  Jane  Austen 
keeps  herself  out  of  her  novels ;  and  the  short- 
stories   of  Guy   dc   Maupassant   are   utterly   ob- 


rERSONALITY  OF  PLAYWRIGHT    147 

joctive.  What  sort  of  man  wrote  La  Parure? 
We  may  answer,  "  A  great  artist  " ;  but  that  is 
all.  So,  in  the  drama,  we  find  that  (Edipus  King 
tells  us  nothing  about  Sophocles ;  and  though  the 
keenest  of  English  critics,  Walter  Bagehot,  tried 
to  induce  a  sense  of  Shakespeare's  personality 
from  a  study  of  his  plays,  and  later  critics  with 
less  sound  and  more  inventive  minds  have  pursued 
this  method  to  extravagant  extremes,  we  notice 
that  that  one  of  all  his  plays  which  is  the 
finest  technical  achievement  —  I  mean,  of  course, 
Othello  —  tells  us  next  to  nothing  about  Shake- 
speare. 

But  if  art  at  its  most  perfect  is  impersonal, 
we  must  admit  that  the  obtrusion  of  the  artist's 
personality  in  works  that  rank  only  a  little  lower 
than  the  highest  is  often  an  amiable  imperfection. 
When  Ulysses  is  discovered  by  the  maidens  of 
Nausicaa,  it  would  trouble  us  if  we  had  to  think 
of  the  author  as  a  blind  old  man;  but — to  take 
an  instance  of  the  other  type  —  unless  we  do  think 
of  the  author  as  a  blind  old  man,  we  shall  lose  most 
of  the  poignancy  and  pathos  of  the  opening  of  the 
third  book  of  Paradise  Lost.  We  prefer  Chaucer 
to  Spenser  not  because  he  is  a  finer  artist,  for  he 
is  not  so  fine,  but  because  he  reveals  to  us  a  more 
affable  and  human  personality.  Artistry,  after 
all,  is  less  appealing  than  humanity ;  and  Addi- 
son, who  is  an  artist,  interests  us  less  than  Pepys, 


148         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

who  is  a  man.  If  artistry  were  everything,  there 
would  be  no  excuse  for  preferring  the  work  of 
Giotto,  who  cannot  draw  hands  and  feet  and 
whose  perspective  goes  awry,  to  the  work  of 
Guido  Reni,  who  is  a  practised  and  accompHshed 
painter ;  but  Giotto  makes  us  love  him  so  much 
that  we  overlook  his  inequalities  of  craftsmanship, 
and  Guido  bores  us  to  such  an  extent  by  his  con- 
ventional and  vulgar  mind  that  we  are  almost 
tempted  to  resent  his  skill  in  draughtsmanship. 
Mr.  Howells,  who  is  himself  an  objective  artist 
and  therefore  an  apostle  of  impersonality,  com- 
ments adversely  on  Thackeray's  tendency  "  to 
stand  about  in  his  scene,  talking  it  over  with  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  interrupting  the  action,  and 
spoiling  the  illusion  in  which  alone  the  truth  of 
art  resides  "  and  condemns  him  as  "  a  writer  who 
had  so  little  artistic  sensibility,  that  he  never 
hesitated  on  any  occasion,  great  or  small,  to  make 
a  foray  among  his  characters,  and  catch  them  up 
to  show  them  to  the  reader  and  tell  him  how  beau- 
tiful or  ugly  they  were ;  and  cry  out  over  their 
amazing  properties."  This  statement  explains 
readily  enough  the  grounds  on  which  Thackeray 
must  be  regarded  as  a  less  accomplished  artist 
than  Jane  Austen,  or  than  Mr.  Howells  himself; 
but  it  fails  to  explain  why  most  of  us  would  rather 
read  Thackeray.  We  return  to  The  Newcomes 
again  and  again,  not  so  much  for  the  pleasure  of 


PERSONALITY  OF  PLAYWRIGHT    149 

seeing  London  high  society  in  the  early  nineteenth 
century  as  for  the  pleasure  of  seeing  Thackeray 
see  it;  and  it  is  precisely  in  those  moments  of 
amiable  imperfection  which  Mr.  Howells  has  stig- 
matized that  we  find  ourselves  nearest  to  Thack- 
eray and  therefore  nearest  to  our  source  of  pleas- 
ure. When  Mr.  Brownell,  in  his  marvelous 
destructive  criticism  of  the  short-stories  of  Haw- 
thorne, laid  bare  their  weaknesses  as  works  of 
art,  he  lost  sight  of  the  fact  that  our  real  reason 
for  liking  them  is  not  because  they  are  works  of 
art,  but  because  they  are  written  b}^  Hawthorne, 
and  that  to  reveal  the  weaknesses  of  a  man  we 
love  will  only  make  us  love  him  more.  It  is  in 
this  way  that  imperfect  artists  with  engaging 
personalities  get  around  the  critics. 

In  the  contemporary  drama  we  are  confronted 
by  artists  of  the  one  type  and  the  other,  and  it  is 
difficult  to  choose  between  them.  For  instance, 
we  have  been  shown  a  great  example  of  objective 
art  in  The  Thunderbolt  and  a  great  example  of 
subjective  art  in  Alice  Sit-By-The-Fire;  and  all 
that  may  be  said  by  the  critic  who  would  judge 
between  them  is  that,  although  Sir  Arthur  Pinero 
is  incontestably  the  greatest  artist  among  con- 
temporary English-writing  dramatists.  Sir  James 
Barrie  is  nevertheless  the  best-beloved  among  them. 
The  wonderful  thing  about  Pinero's  characters  is 
their  apparent  independence  of  their  creator;  but 


150         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

the  wonderful  thing  about  Barrie's  characters  is 
the  sense  they  give  us  at  all  moments  that  they  are 
creatures  of  his  amiable  mind.  If  we  adopt  for  a 
moment  the  familiar  definition  of  art  as  "  life  seen 
through  a  temperament,"  we  shall  notice  that 
Pinero  emphasizes  the  life  we  are  looking  at  and 
that  Barrie  emphasizes  the  temperament  we  are 
looking  through.  All  that  Pinero  values  is  the 
relations  of  his  characters  with  each  other;  but 
Barrie  values  more  intensely  the  relations  of  his 
characters  with  himself.  Barrie  appears  not  only 
as  the  author  of  his  plays  but  also  as  the  chief  of 
all  the  auditors ;  he  sits  beside  us  during  the  per- 
formance, and  nudges  us  or  takes  our  hand  at  this 
moment  and  at  that  to  make  sure  that  we  share 
his  own  delight  at  the  unfolding  of  his  comedy. 
But  while  we  are  looking  at  a  play  by  Pinero,  we 
feel  that  the  author  has  gone  home  to  bed  and 
forgotten  all  about  it.  Of  course  Barrie's  habit 
of  taking  us  into  his  confidence  would  annoy  us 
as  much  as  Mr.  Howells  is  annoyed  by  Thackeray 
—  unless  we  were  fond  of  Barrie ;  but  as  it  is,  we 
feel  it  a  personal  favor  that  he  should  come  to  the 
performance  with  us  and  let  us  sec  it  through  his 
eyes.  We  like  Barrie ;  and  that  is  the  sole  and  all- 
important  reason  why  we  like  to  see  his  plays.  He 
may  make  a  good  play,  like  The  Admirable 
Crichton;  he  may  make  a  bad  play,  like  Little 
Mary;  but  we  enjoy  them  almost  equally,  because 


PERSONALITY  OF  PLAYWRIGHT    151 

he  enjoys  them  and  has  won  us  to  enjoy  what  he 
enjoys.  But  in  the  case  of  an  impersonal  artist 
like  Pincro,  we  lose  interest  unless  he  has  fashioned 
for  us  an  admirable  work  of  art.  When  he  writes 
The  Wife  Without  a  Smile,  we  will  have  none 
of  him ;  and  the  fact  that  he  must  have  liked  to 
write  it  does  not  influence  us  in  the  least.  Barrie, 
no  doubt,  is  the  spoiled  child  among  our  drama- 
tists ;  if  he  chooses  to  construct  badly,  we  let  him 
have  his  way,  for  the  illogical  and  overwhelming 
reason  that  he  is  Barrie  and  we  love  him.  As 
for  Pinero  we  cannot  tell  from  his  works  whether 
we  love  him  or  not ;  all  that  we  can  tell  is  that  we 
admire  and  appreciate  his  art.  He  keeps  himself 
out  of  his  plays,  because,  as  an  artist,  he  does  not 
regard  himself  as  a  factor  in  them.  Sir  Arthur 
once  told  me  in  conversation  that  he  personally 
loved  the  characters  in  Mid-Channel  and  The 
Thunderbolt;  but  he  has  carefully  concealed  from 
his  public  the  fact  that  he  loves  them.  To  the 
average  audience  those  twisted  and  exacerbated 
people  seem  unlovable;  and  the  audience  infers 
that,  if  anything,  the  author  must  have  disap- 
proved of  them.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  Barrie 
parades  his  fondness  for  his  characters ;  so  that 
sometimes  we  see  his  fondness  more  clearly  than 
we  see  the  characters,  as  in  looking  at  Andrea 
del  Sarto's  paintings  of  Lucrezia  we  see  his  wife 
less  vividly  than  we  see  the  haze  of  sentiment  with 


\ 


152         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

which  he  haloed  her.  In  actual  experience,  all 
canons  of  art  or  lack  of  art  fall  down  before  the 
potency  of  personality.  After  years  of  technical 
analysis  have  convinced  us  that  Burke  writes  great 
prose  and  Lamb  writes  imperfect  prose,  we  find 
ourselves  returning  again  and  again  to  the  Disser- 
tation on  Roast  Pig  (although  we  have  no  interest 
in  the  origin  of  cookery)  and  to  Mrs.  Battle's 
Opinions  on  Whist  (although  in  these  days  of 
Auction  Bridge  we  have  lost  interest  in  the  sim- 
pler game),  merely  because  Charles  Lamb  is  stam- 
mering and  chortling  through  them  and  —  we  love 
Charles  Lamb.  The  appeal  of  personality  is  un- 
reasonable, and  therefore  as  irresistible  as  the  love 
of  woman ;  and  criticism,  in  dealing  with  personal, 
subjective  works,  must  therefore  cast  reason  to  the 
winds  and  estimate  only  the  affection  they  evoke. 


XIII 
THEMES  AND  STORIES  ON  THE  STAGE 


In  olden  fairy-talcs  we  read  of  many  honor- 
able souls  condemned  to  dwell  in  cramped  and 
crooked  bodies,  and  we  also  read  of  many  goodly 
bodies  that  walk  the  world  untenanted  by  any 
soul.  These  fables  lay  a  finger  on  one  of  the 
monstrous  ironies  of  life.  It  would  seem  to  our 
finite  minds  that  if  the  creative  spirit  of  the  uni- 
verse were  at  all  reasonable  in  its  workings  it 
would  clothe  a  fine  soul  with  a  fair  body  and  use 
a  foul  body  as  the  tenement  of  an  evil  soul ;  but 
this  harmony  is  seldom  to  be  seen  in  actual  crea- 
tion. The  wicked 'Slary  Stuart  looks  the  loveliest 
of  women ;  the  serene,  sagacious  Socrates  wears 
a  funny  face;  and  very  few  people  enjoy,  like 
John  Keats,  the  privilege  of  looking  like  them- 
selves. Seldom  does  the  soul  fit  the  body,  or  the 
body  fit  the  soul ;  and  this  might  almost  be 
imagined  as  a  reason  for  that  disassociation  known 
as  death. 

What  is  true  of  human  beings  is  also  true  of 
works  of  art;  for  any  genuine  work  of  art,  be- 
153 


154         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

cause  it  is  a  living  thing,  may  be  imagined  to 
have  a  body  and  a  soul.  Sometimes,  as  in  the  case 
of  the  poems  of  Walt  Whitman  or  the  paintings 
of  El  Greco,  the  soul  is  finer  than  the  bod}'; 
sometimes,  as  in  the  case  of  the  paintings  of 
Andrea  del  Sarto  or  the  poems  of  Poe,  the  body 
is  fairer  than  the  soul;  but  very  rarely  are  the 
two  of  equal  beauty,  as  in  the  supreme  poem  of 
Dante  and  the  supreme  painting  of  Leonardo. 

The  soul  of  a  play  is  its  theme,  and  the  body 
of  a  play  is  its  story.  A  play  may  have  a  great 
theme  and  an  inadequate  story,  or  an  interesting 
story  and  scarcely  any  theme  at  all:  it  may 
be  a  noble-minded  hunch-back  or  a  shallow-pated 
Prince  Charming;  but  only  a  few  great  plays  re- 
veal profound,  important  themes  beneath  the  linea- 
ments of  engaging  and  enthralling  stories. 

By  the  theme  of  a  play  is  meant  some  prin- 
ciple, or  truth,  of  human  life  —  such  a  truth  as 
might  be  formulated  critically  in  an  abstract  and 
general  proposition  —  which  the  dramatist  con- 
trives to  convey  concretely  to  his  auditors  through 
the  particular  medium  of  his  story.  Thus,  the 
theme  of  Ghosts  is  that  the  sins  of  the  fathers  are 
visited  on  the  children,  and  the  theme  of  The 
Pigeon  is  that  the  wild  spirits  and  the  tame 
spirits  of  the  world  can  never  understand  each 
other.  Granted  a  good  theme,  a  playwright  may 
invent  a  dozen  or  a  hundred  stories  to  embody  it; 


THEMES  AND  STORIES  155 

but  the  final  merit  of  his  work  will  depend  largely 
on  whether  or  not  he  has  succeeded  in  selecting 
a  story  that  is  at  all  points  worthy  of  his  theme. 
As  an  instance  of  the  desired  harmony  between 
the  two  we  may  point  to  A  DolVs  House,  which 
succeeds  in  illustrating  Whitman's  maxim  that 
"  the  soul  is  not  more  than  the  body  "  and  "  the 
body  is  not  more  than  the  soul."  The  theme  of 
this  modem  tragedy  was  thus  formulated  by 
Ibsen  in  a  note  penciled  on  the  back  of  an  en- 
velope in  Rome  on  October  19,  1878:  "There  are 
two  kinds  of  spiritual  law,  two  kinds  of  conscience 
—  one  in  man,  and  another,  altogether  different, 
in  woman.  They  do  not  understand  each  other; 
but  in  practical  life  the  woman  is  judged  by 
man's  law,  as  though  she  were  not  a  woman  but 
a  man.  ...  A  woman  cannot  be  herself  in  the 
society  of  the  present  day,  which  is  an  exclusively 
masculine  society,  with  laws  framed  by  men  and 
with  a  judicial  sj^stem  that  judges  feminine  con- 
duct from  a  masculine  point  of  view."  This 
thesis  is  the  soul  of  A  DolVs  House:  its  body  is 
merely  a  story  setting  forth  an  instance  of  the 
commonplace  crime  of  forgery.  Yet  this  instance 
is  so  skilfully  selected  that  the  story  develops  nat- 
urally and  inevitably  to  that  astounding  final  dia- 
logue which  incorporates  the  essence  of  the  theme 
and  seems  not  of  an  age  but  of  all  time.  Here 
is  a  story  that  is  eminently  adequate  to  the  occa- 


'f 


156         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

sion  that  called  it  forth ;  and  yet  it  is  conceivable 
that  Ibsen  might  have  invented  an  entirely  differ- 
ent narrative  to  carry  and  deliver  the  message  of 
his  drama. 

That  the  playwright's  range  of  possible  inven- 
tion is  almost  limitless  is  proved  by  the  fact  that 
the  same  theme  has  often  served  as  the  basis  of 
several  great  plays,  by  different  authors,  whose 
stories  have  shown  no  obvious  resemblance  to  each 
other.  Thus,  the  theme  of  Macbeth  is  that  vault- 
ing ambition  which  o'erleaps  itself  will  fall  on  the 
other  side ;  and  this  is  also  the  theme  of  The 
M aster-Builder,  which  tells  a  very  different  story. 
Likewise  Hamlet  and  UAiglon,  which  are  unlike 
in  narrative  details,  are  identical  in  theme  —  the 
essential  basis  of  each  being  the  failure  of  a  man 
of  poetic  and  reflective  temperament  to  cope  with 
\  circumstances  that  demand  a  man  of  action. 

In  view  of  the  wide  range  of  possible  invention, 
it  is  surprising  that  so  many  of  our  playwrights 
fail  to  devise  stories  that  are  worthy  to  incorpo- 
rate their  themes.  No  other  source  of  failure  in 
the  theatre  comes  more  often  to  the  fore.  An 
instance  of  this  inadequacy  is  offered  by  the  re- 
cent play  called  Milestones,  by  Messrs.  Arnold 
Bennett  and  Edward  Knoblauch.  The  soul  of  this 
piece  is  a  great  theme  —  namely,  that  "crabbed 
age  and  youth  cannot  live  together,"  because 
youth  is  always  radical  and  forward-looking  and 


THEMES  AND  STORIES  157 

age  is  always  backward-looking  and  conscn'ative ; 
but  its  body  is  merely  a  sedentary,  unimportant 
story  that  deals  with  such  a  minor  problem  as 
whether  ships  should  be  built  of  wood  or  iron  or 
steel,  and  such  an  ordinary  question  as  who  shall 
ultimately  marry  whom.  And  because  of  the  in- 
adequacy of  its  narrative,  the  critic  who  envisages 
the  theme  of  Milestones  must  regard  the  finished 
fabric  as  less  impressive  than  the  authors  should 
have  made  it. 

Sometimes,  but  more  rarely,  the  contrary  fault 
may  be  exhibited  in  the  theatre.  There  is  a  type 
of  play  that  commands  attention  by  its  cleverness 
of  plot  and  its  deft  manipulation  of  suspense  and 
of  surprise,  without  revealing  any  central  and 
essential  theme  or  conveying  any  general  truth  of 
life  for  the  auditor  to  add  to  his  experience. 
Such  a  play  may  succeed  for  the  moment,  but  it 
is  not  likely  to  live  in  after  years.  For  (to  re- 
turn to  our  former  statement)  a  work  of  art  is  like  ^ 
a  human  being;  and  nothing  can  survive  of  either  j 
but  the  soul.  As  Browning  remarked,  with  sar-  ^ 
donic  truthfulness  — "  The  soul,  doubtless,  is 
immortal  —  where  a  soul  can  be  discerned." 
Generations  breathe  and  eat  and  laugh  and 
love  and  die ;  but  only  those  few  men  remain 
immortal  who  leave  their  souls  behind  them.  If 
a  man  shall  say,  not  merely  with  his  mouth  but 
with  the  entire  mood  and  meaning  of  his  living, 


158         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

"  Beauty  is  truth,  truth  beauty  "  or  "  Thou  shalt 
love  thy  neighbor  as  thyself,"  the  world  must 
evermore  remember  the  life  of  which  this  message 
was  the  theme;  but  it  easily  forgets  the  million 
men  whose  inexpressive  dust  returns  to  dust.  So 
it  is  with  plays.  Those  that  succeed  in  saying 
something  have  earned  an  opportunity  to  live; 
but  those  that  say  nothing  must  suffer,  sooner  or 
later,  the  iniquity  of  oblivion.  A  good  story  is 
necessary  in  order  that  a  play  may  attain  an  im- 
mediate success ;  but  a  great  theme  is  necessary 
in  order  that  it  may  require  the  attention  of 
posterity. 

II 

It  would  not  be  possible  for  anybody  to  de- 
vise an  utterly  new  story  for  a  play.  The  dra- 
matic material  in  life  is  limited.  According  to 
certain  critics,  the  number  of  different  dramatic 
situations  is  a  little  more  than  thirty ;  according 
to  others,  it  is  a  little  less  than  twenty;  but  all 
are  agreed  that  the  number  is  extremely  small. 
Novelty  in  the  drama  can  therefore  be  attained 
not  by  the  discovery  of  new  materials,  but  only 
by  the  invention  of  new  combinations  of  materials 
that  are  as  old  as  man. 

Yet  the  invention  of  new  combinations  affords 
ample  scope  for  the  exercise  of  ingenuity.  The 
range  of  imaginable  numbers   is  not  limited  by 


THEMES  AND  STORIES  159 

the  fact  that  all  may  be  recorded  with  the  ten 
digits  of  the  Arabic  notation ;  nor  does  the  world 
in  springtime  look  monotonous  in  color  because 
every  apparent  tint  may  be  regarded  as  exhibiting 
a  permutation  of  red  and  blue  and  yellow.  The 
twenty  or  thirty  standard  situations  may  be 
shuffled  and  dealt  into  innumerable  plots,  each  of 
which  is  new  though  all  of  its  component  parts 
are  old. 

A  play  appeals  in  two  ways  to  an  audience.  In 
so  far  as  its  component  situations  are  traditional, 
it  calls  forth  the  response  of  recognition,  and  in 
so  far  as  its  compounded  plot  is  novel  it  stimu- 
lates the  reaction  of  surprise.  In  considering 
these  two  appeals,  we  must  remember  always  that 
the  emotion  of  recognition  is  more  profound,  and 
therefore  more  enjoyable,  than  the  titillation  of 
surprise.  The  best  part  of  our  enjoyment  in  the  ~\ 
theatre  arises  not  from  vainly  wondering  what 
will  happen,  but  from  eagerly  wanting  some  spe- 
cific thing  to  happen  and  having  our  want  fulfilled. 
A  noticeable  novelty,  even  in  the  combination  of 
materials  that  in  themselves  are  thoroughly  fa- 
miliar, is  therefore  not  always  to  be  praised  as  a 
merit  in  a  play,  but  may  often  be  regarded  as  a 
fault. 

But  if  originality  of  subject-matter  is  impos- 
sible, and  if  originality  of  arrangement  is  often 
undesirable,  why  should  we  care  to  see  new  plays 


160         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

instead  of  old?  Why  should  we  see  The  Liars, 
which  treats  the  same  theme  as  Le  Misanthrope? 
The  answer  seems  a  paradox;  but  undeniably 
our  enjoyment  arises  from  the  fact  that  the  very 
antiquity  of  the  author's  materials  emphasizes  his 
originality  of  mind. 

Any  club-member  can  bear  witness  that  the 
same  anecdote  may  seem  dull  if  told  by  one  narra- 
tor and  highly  humorous  if  recounted  by  another. 
In  the  theatre,  the  ultimate  significance  of  any 
story  is  proportioned  to  the  importance  of  the 
mind  through  which  it  passes  to  the  audience. 
The  trial  of  Shylock,  and  the  subterfuge  by 
which  Portia  confutes  him,  would  seem  silly  stuff 
indeed  if  it  were  told  us  by  a  child  of  ten ;  but 
it  does  not  seem  silly  as  told  to  us  by  Shake- 
speare. It  is  the  author's  attitude  of  mind  to- 
ward his  material,  the  intelligence  with  which  he 
regards  it,  the  mood  that  it  awakens  in  him,  that 
renders  his  work  distinct  from  that  of  any  other 
author  who  has  used  the  same  material,  and 
stamps  it  an  original  creation. 

It  is  a  significant  fact  that  the  three  greatest 
dramatists  of  the  world  —  Sophocles,  Shake- 
speare, and  Moliere  —  eschewed  the  invention  of 
new  narrative  and  exercised  their  high  originality 
of  mind  in  the  treatment  of  stories  with  which 
their  public  had  been  long  familiar.  The  critic, 
therefore,  should  never  condemn  a  playwright  be- 


THEMES  AND  STORIES  161 

cause  his  story  is  old ;  but  he  may  reasonably 
expect  the  author  to  illuminate  the  narrative  with 
ideas  and  moods  that  shall  be  new  because  they 
are  essentially  his  own.  "  I  take  my  own  where 
I  find  it,"  said  Moliere ;  and  whatever  he  took  he 
made  his  own  by  the  divine  right  of  thinking 
more  deeply  about  it  than  the  man  from  whom  he 
took  it.  Sir  Arthur  Pinero,  in  The  Thunder- 
holt,  employed  the  stale  old  story  of  the  stolen 
will ;  but  he  set  it  forth  with  a  soundness  of  sense 
and  a  poignancy  of  sensibility  that  made  it  seem 
original  and  new. 

Any  dramatic  story  belongs  ultimately,  not  to 
the  man  who  used  it  first,  nor  even  to  the  man 
who  used  it  last,  but  to  the  man  who  has  used  it 
best.  In  reviewing  new  plays  with  old  stories, 
the  critic  should  inquire  whether  or  not  the  author 
has  afforded  new  illumination  to  the  ancient  drift 
of  narrative.  If  so,  he  has  really  made  the  tra- 
ditional material  his  own;  but  otherwise  he  has 
merely  wasted  attention  by  a  meaningless 
repetition. 


XIV 
PLAUSIBILITY  IN  PLAYS 

A  PLAY  can  scarcely  succeed  in  the  theatre  un- 
less, during  the  two  hours'  traffic  of  the  stage, 
the  particular  audience  it  appeals  to  believes  the 
story  that  it  tells ;  and  no  piece  can  be  considered 
an  important  contribution  to  dramatic  literature 
unless,  upon  a  critical  examination,  it  proves  it- 
self to  have  been  conceived  and  conducted  in  ac- 
cordance with  the  admitted  laws  of  life.  The  first 
question  that  must  be  asked  of  any  play  that 
appeals  for  popularity  is,  "Is  it  plausible?": 
and  the  only  and  all-inclusive  question  that  must 
be  asked  of  any  play  that  bids  for  more  than 
passing  commendation  is  the  question,  "  It  it 
true?" 

There  are  innumerable  plays  that  pass  the  first 
test  successfully  and  then  falter  before  the  sec- 
ond. So  long  as  an  audience  is  gathered  in  the 
theatre,  it  offers  to  the  playwright  the  advantage 
of  a  crowd's  credulity ;  and  the  actors,  by  sin- 
cerity of  art,  may  charitably  cover  up  a  multitude 
of  sins  upon  the  author's  part.  It  is  only  after- 
ward, when  the  crowd  has  disintegrated  into  its 

162 


PLAUSIBILITY  IN  TLAYS  163 

individual  components,  and  these  individuals  have 
escaped  from  the  immediate  influence  of  the  ac- 
tors* personal  appeal,  that,  in  many  cases,  it  be- 
comes possible  to  perceive,  in  retrospect,  that  the 
dramatist  has  trifled  with  the  laws  of  life;  and, 
as  a  gambling  chance,  the  playwright  is  war- 
ranted in  figuring  that  very  few  people  will  an- 
alyze his  eff'ort  intellectually  after  they  have  left 
the  theatre.  Not  ultimate  truth,  but  only  imme- 
diate plausibility,  is  all  he  needs  to  master  if  his 
ambition  is  set  only  on  success. 

But  momentary  plausibility  is  no  antidote 
against  the  opium  of  time ;  and  the  world  will  con- 
sent to  remember  the  plays  of  yesteryear  only 
when  they  have  told  unfalteringly  some  truth  of 
human  life  which  was  eminently  worth  the  telling. 
For  Truth  is  the  talisman  we  all  are  seeking  in 
that  running  toward  the  rainbow's  foot  which  is 
our  little  life  upon  this  planet ;  and  we  are  very 
busy  in  the  running,  and  cannot  pause  for  long 
to  listen  to  tales  that  are  not  true.  Even  plausi- 
bility itself  we  are  willing  to  discard,  if  the  un- 
plausible  may  symbolize  for  us  some  nearer  revela- 
tion of  reality.  The  Blue  Bird  is  not  a  plausible 
representation  of  experience ;  yet  it  is  eternally,  im- 
mortally true.  To  tell  the  truth  is  a  very  difficult 
and  delicate  task,  far  heavier  than  moving  moun- 
tains ;  and  truth  often  may  be  told  more  lucidly  by 
some  dreamful  alteration  of  the  unrevelatory  terms        -T" 


164.         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

of  actuality.  Often  we  are  voyaging  in  search  of 
some  treasure  island  buried  beyond  our  actual 
horizon ;  and  to  see  it  we  need  the  mystic  aid 
of  a  mirage.  The  poetic  drama  is  a  telescope, 
through  which  we  may  look  at  truths  so  high  that, 
without  its  aiding  intervention,  they  would  re- 
main invisible;  and  for  that  imaginative  search- 
ing of  the  skies  there  are  cryptic  astronomic  prin- 
ciples which  transcend  the  ordinary  rules  of  criti- 
cism. 

At  present,  in  considering  only  the  need  for 
plausibility  in  the  ordinary  play,  we  must  make  a 
certain  reservation  in  favor  of  the  dramatist.  We 
must  permit  him  to  begin  with  almost  any  premise, 
and  we  must  allow  him  to  end  as  he  conveniently 
can ;  provided  that,  during  the  course  of  his  nar- 
rative itself,  he  does  not  impose  any  undue  tax  on 
our  credulity.  Any  work  of  art  is  a  conventional 
patterning  of  certain  selected  details  of  nature; 
and  the  convention  must  be  most  apparent  in  the 
beginning  of  the  work  and  in  the  end.  For  life 
itself  is  a  continuous  sequence  of  causation :  it 
shows  no  absolute  beginnings  and  no  utter  ends. 
-V  Nothing  in  life  is  initiatory,  nothing  is  conclusive. 
Not  even  birth  is  a  beginning ;  for  the  shadowy 
and  disconcerting  science  of  heredity  teaches  us 
to  regard  it  as  only  an  incident  in  the  progress 
of  the  race.  Not  even  death  is  final ;  for  no  monu- 
mental tombstone  can  hold  an  influence  quiescent, 


PLAUSIBILITY  IN  PLAYS  165 

and  our  slightest  actions  vibrate  in  ever-widening 
circles  through  incalculable  time.  But  a  play, 
by  the  conditions  of  its  representment,  must  have 
a  beginning  and  an  end.  It  derives  its  possibility 
of  existence  from  an  initial  and  a  terminal  falsifi- 
cation of  the  admitted  facts  of  nature.  Hence 
we  must  pardon  the  playwright  for  any  necessary 
cuttinff  of  the  Gordian  knot  of  his  structure  at 
the  close ;  and  we  may  pardon  him  also  for  start- 
ing his  narrative  with  a  posture  of  circumstances  (i 
that  is  scarcely  plausible.  The  one  thing  that 
we  may  not  pardon  is  a  violation  of  plausibility 
during  the  progress  of  the  action  from  the  con- 
ventional starting-point  to  the  conventional 
termination.  We  will  grant  him  his  own  condi- 
tions at  the  outset,  provided  that  he  shall  remain 
faithful  to  the  legitimate  requirements  of  those 
conditions  until  the  time  comes  for  him  to  empty 
the  theatre  and  send  us  home.  He  may  end  his 
play  with  a  wedding,  and  delude  us  with  the 
amiable  fiction  that  marriage  is  an  end  instead  of 
a  beginning,  provided  that  he  has  led  up  to  the 
marriage  through  a  logical  development  of  mo- 
tives; and  he  may  begin  with  a  staggering  im- 
possibility, as  Sophocles  began  in  (Edipus  King 
or  Goldsmith  began  in  She  Stoops  to  Conquer  (to 
mention  two  great  plays  as  far  apart  as  possible 
in  mood),  provided  that  thereafter,  when  we  have 
granted  the  conditions   precedent   to   the  action,        jo. 


166         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

he  shall  rigorously  tell  the  truth  that  is  necessi- 
tated by  those  conventional  conditions.  In  other 
words,  it  may  be  formulated  as  a  practical  rule 
that  a  playwright  should  gather  whatever  impos- 
sibilities may  lie  latent  in  his  story  into  that  sec- 
tion of  the  entire  narrative  that  is  conceived  to 
have  occurred  before  the  play  begins.  We  are 
willing  to  accept  an  antecedent  unplausibility,  be- 
cause it  is  merely  stated  to  us  in  conventional  ex- 
pository lines ;  but  we  refuse  to  accept  a  subse- 
quent unplausibility,  because  we  have  to  watch  it 
being  acted  out  before  our  very  eyes  upon  the 
stage.  A  playwright  may  begin  by  asking  us  to 
concede  (for  the  sake  of  the  entertainment  he  is 
about  to  offer  us)  that  two  is  equal  to  four;  but 
he  must  afterward  adhere  logically  to  the  infer- 
ence that  four  is  equal  to  eight  and  eight  is  equal 
to  sixteen.  If  he  subsequently  tells  us  that  four 
is  equal  to  nine,  we  shall  immediately  revolt  from 
the  convention  of  credulity  and  reject  his  narra- 
tive as  unbelievable. 


XV 

INFIRMITY  OF  PURPOSE 

Many  modern  plays  which  set  forth  interest- 
ing subject-matter  and  contain  several  admirable 
scenes  fail  of  their  totality  of  artistic  effect  be- 
cause of  an  apparent  infirmity  in  the  author's 
purpose.  Unless  the  writer  knows  at  every  mo- 
ment precisely  what  sort  of  effect  he  desires  to 
produce,  and  can  communicate  by  contagion  a 
clear  sense  of  this  precision  of  purpose,  he  will 
muddle  the  auditor's  mind  in  its  endeavor  to  fol- 
low him.  If,  in  the  course  of  a  single  composi- 
tion, he  mixes  up  his  types,  his  moods,  his  styles, 
in  a  discordant  manner,  he  will  disperse  the  at-  1^ 
tention  of  the  auditor  and  perplex  the  latter's 
faculty  for  unperturbed  enjoyment.  It  is  time, 
of  course,  that  the  modern  playwright  need  not 
always  be  actuated  by  a  single  aim  —  his  play, 
perhaps,  will  be  all  the  better  if  he  is  not  —  but 
there  should  always  be  apparent  in  his  purpose 
what  may  be  called  a  harmony  of  aims.  But  very 
few  of  the  plays  that  get  themselves  produced  are 
harmonious  from  the  outset  to  the  end.  Nearly 
all  of  them  obtrude  some  jarring  note,  some  dis- 

167 


168         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

cord  in  the  pattern.  The  reason  for  this  may  be 
undoubtedly  referred  to  an  infirmity  in  the  au- 
thor's faculty  of  attention  on  the  business  in 
hand.  The  hardest  task  on  earth  is  to  fix  one's 
mind  on  anything  and  hold  it  fixed;  and  perhaps 
our  playwrights  should  be  pardoned,  therefore, 
for  a  little  wavering. 

This  infirmity  of  purpose  may  show  itself  in 
any  of  three  ways :  —  first,  in  a  mixture  of  types ; 
second,  in  a  mixture  of  moods ;  or  third,  in  a 
mixture  of  styles.  These  three  defects  we  may 
discuss  in  order. 

A  playwright  should  always  know  pretty 
definitely  whether  he  means  to  write  a  farce,  a 
comedy,  a  melodrama,  or  a  tragedy.  Further- 
more, he  should  communicate  his  purpose  early  to 
the  audience,  and  should  cling  to  it  throughout 
the  traffic  of  the  stage.  This  assertion  is  not 
offered  a  priori,  as  an  academic  axiom;  but  it  is 
derivable  from  a  study  of  the  practice  of  the  sur- 
est artists.  The  entire  tone  of  a  dramatic  com- 
position must  result  from  the  author's  sense  of 
the  type  of  task  that  he  is  dealing  with ;  and  un- 
less this  sense  be  definite,  the  tone  will  be  dis- 
rupted into  discords.  It  is,  of  course,  possible, 
and  desirable,  to  effect  certain  combinations  of 
types  in  the  course  of  a  single  composition ;  but 
the  number  of  possible  combinations  is  limited. 
It  is,  for  instance,  natural  for  farce  to  stiffen 


INFIRMITY  OF  PURPOSE  169 

into  melodrama,  since  in  both  of  these  types  the 
plot  controls  the  characters ;  but  it  is  not  natural 
for  farce  to  mellow  into  emotion  or  deepen  into 
tragedy.  Comedy  can  quite  naturally  flower  into 
the  poetry  of  sentiment,  but  it  cannot  attain  the 
thrill  of  melodrama  without  sacrificing  the 
autonomy  of  its  characters.  Tragedy  will  not 
mix  with  farce,  though  it  may  accentuate  itself 
with  comedy ;  and  it  disrobes  itself  of  all  its 
sacred  vestments  when  it  descends  to  melodrama. 
As  principles,  these  abstract  statements  (and 
other  corollaries  of  them  which  we  need  not  take 
the  time  to  analyze)  seem  sufficiently  self-evident; 
and  yet  the  critic  often  finds  them  violated  by  our 
playwrights,  and  always  to  the  detriment  of  the 
artistic  fabric. 

It  is  much  more  difficult  to  determine  to  what 
extent  an  author  may  successfully  attempt  a  mix- 
ture of  moods ;  for  this  problem  —  unlike  the 
problem  of  a  mixture  of  types  —  is  not  based 
upon  an  abstract  logic,  but  solely  on  the  author's 
sense  of  the  degree  to  which  he  may  depend  upon 
his  audience  to  follow  him.  Since  the  normal 
audience  has  differed  in  different  ages  of  the 
drama,  we  may  best  appreciate  this  problem  if 
we  look  upon  it  in  historical  review. 

The  ancients  very  simply  solved  the  problem 
of  a  mixture  of  moods  by  dodging  it  entirely. 
The  Greeks  were  (at  any  chosen  moment)  a  single- 


170         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

mooded  people;  and  the  Romans,  who  emulated 
them,  were  assiduous  to  imitate  their  singleness 
of  mood.  In  the  ancient  drama  we  note  always  a 
sharp  and  clear  distinction  between  the  serious 
and  the  comic,  with  no  admission  of  a  possible 
commingling  of  the  two.  Any  ancient  play  strikes 
at  the  very  outset  the  note  of  that  sole  mood  in 
which  it  is  conceived,  and  thereafter  concerns  it- 
self singly  with  the  broadening  and  deepening  of 
this  invariable  mood.  If  we  are  given  the  first 
few  speeches  of  an  Attic  tragedy  or  a  Roman 
comedy,  we  shall  perceive  at  once  what  may  be 
called  the  humour  of  the  entire  play.  The  ancients 
seem  to  have  felt  one  way  at  one  time  and  an- 
other at  another;  but  the  art  that  they  have  left 
us  affords  no  indication  that  they  allowed  them- 
selves to  feel  two  different  ways  at  once. 

But  this  latter  complexity  of  mood  seems  to 
have  become  the  dominant  and  definitive  feature 
of  the  medieval  mind.  The  contrast  may  be  ob- 
served at  a  glance  if  we  compare  the  architecture 
of  the  Greeks  with  the  architecture  of  the  Goths. 
Any  Greek  temple  exhibits  the  serene  unfolding 
of  a  single  mood ;  but  any  Gothic  cathedral  ex- 
hibits an  antithetic  unfolding  of  a  dual  mood, 
at  the  same  time  solemn  and  hilarious.  Gar- 
goyles grin  at  placid  saints  on  the  fa9ades  of 
Gothic  churches ;  and  sanctity  looks  back  on  blas- 
phemy with  no  dismay.      It  was   this  sharp  an- 


INFIRMITY  OF  PURPOSE  171 

tithesis  of  mood  that  Caldcron  and  Shakespeare, 
who  were  writing  for  auditors  of  medieval  mind, 
strove  to  attain  in  the  glorious  age  of  Spanish, 
and  the  spacious  age  of  English,  drama.  Even 
in  a  solemnly  religious  play,  like  The  Devotion 
of  the  Cross,  Calderon  carries  on  the  action  by 
the  aid  of  a  gracioso,  or  clown;  and  the  Eliza- 
bethan habit  of  commingling  the  funny  and  the 
grim  is  too  familiar  to  require  comment. 

When,  at  last,  in  1830  (owing  to  a  curious 
concatenation  of  historic  circumstances)  the 
future  destiny  of  the  dramatic  art  was  placed 
for  the  moment  in  the  hands  of  Victor  Hugo, 
this  giant  had  before  him,  on  the  one  hand,  the 
example  of  Comeille  and  Racine,  who  had  imitated 
the  ancients  in  their  singleness  of  mood,  and,  on 
the  other  hand,  the  example  of  Shakespeare,  who 
had  agreed  with  the  medieval  desire  for  a  com- 
mingling of  contrasted  moods.  In  the  Preface 
to  Cromwell,  Hugo  cast  his  lot  with  Shakespeare ; 
and  thereafter,  in  his  preachment  and  his  prac- 
tice, he  pleaded  for  a  representation  of  that  vast 
and  meaningful  antithesis  between  the  grotesque 
and  the  sublime  which  he  regarded  as  the  greatest 
mood  of  drama. 

But  the  problem  has  become  more  delicate  since 
the  days  of  Victor  Hugo.  If  the  note  of  ancient 
life  was  singleness  of  mood,  and  the  note  of 
medieval  life  was   a  contrast  of  two  moods,  the 


172         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

note  of  our  modern  life  has  become  an  intricacy 
of  many  moods.  Our  existence  is  the  most  com- 
plex that  has  ever  yet  emerged  in  the  history  of 
mankind ;  and,  quite  naturally  and  indeed  inevita- 
bly, our  art  (whose  purpose  is  to  represent  our 
life)  is  more  complex  than  that  of  any  earlier 
age.  We  no  longer  write  plays  which  exhibit 
either  the  gradual  intensification  of  a  single  mood 
or  a  shai'p  and  vivid  contrast  of  two  antithetic 
moods :  our  purpose  is,  rather,  to  exhibit  a  multi- 
plicity of  moods,  through  the  medium  of  an  ar- 
tistry that  is  more  intricate  than  that  of  any 
former  period. 

This  imposes  on  our  modern  playwrights  an 
extraordinary  task  of  orchestration.  They  may 
deal  wuth  any  number  and  variety  of  moods,  pro- 
vided that  they  can  modulate  them  into  harmony : 
but  the  very  freedom  of  this  orchestration  makes 
it  the  more  difficult  for  them  to  avoid  disrupting 
discords.  It  would,  for  instance,  be  a  discord  if 
a  serious  love-scene  were  ever  introduced  as  the 
climax  of  a  William  Collier  farce;  and  the  critic 
must  compliment  Mr.  Collier  for  his  astuteness  in 
refusing  to  attempt  such  a  scene.  But  this  error 
often  shows  its  head  in  the  course  of  our  con- 
temporary plays.  For  instance,  in  Mr.  Alfred 
Sutro's  comedy.  The  Perplexed  Husband,  there 
is  a  scene  of  serious  sentiment  at  the  third  curtain- 
fall  which  quite  disrupts  the  mood  of  playful  ban- 


INFIRMITY  OF  PURPOSE  173 

ter  in  which  the  composition,  for  the  most  part, 
is  conceived. 

What  moods  will  mix  harmoniously  and  what 
will  not  is  a  question  that  each  playwright  must 
determine  for  himself.  Whether  or  not  his  play 
will  strike  a  discord  must  depend  upon  the  temper 
of  his  audience;  and  he  must  therefore  be  very 
sure,  before  attempting  an  airy  shift  from  one 
mood  to  another,  that  his  audience  will  follow 
him  without  effort.  Our  storehouses  are  packed 
with  the  scenery  of  plays  which  have  failed 
merely  because  of  an  impossible  or  injudicious 
mixture  of  moods.  In  this  regard,  therefore,  it 
behooves  our  playwrights  to  attack  their  tasks 
with  an  artistic  purpose  that  shall  remain  un- 
falteringly firm. 

A  more  obvious  error  is  a  mixture  of  styles 
during  the  course  of  a  single  composition.  Hav- 
ing hit  a  certain  key  of  writing  at  the  outset  of 
his  dialogue,  the  author  should  maintain  this  to 
the  end.  An  instance  of  the  violation  of  this 
principle  which  will  be  readily  remembered  oc- 
curred in  the  course  of  Mr.  James  Forbcs's  in- 
teresting study  of  The  Chorus  Lady.  The  first 
two  acts  of  that  diverting  drama  were  written  in 
a  delectable  slang;  but  the  curtain-fall  of  the 
third  act  (at  which  the  innocent  heroine  was  dis- 
covered at  midnight  in  the  villain's  rooms)  was 
written  in  the  conventional  rhetoric  of  melodrama. 


174         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

Slang  and  rhetoric  will  not  associate  on  friendly 
terms ;  and  a  play  that  is  written  in  two  styles 
will  not  produce  upon  the  auditor  an  impression 
of  happiness  and  peace.  Stevenson,  in  several 
letters  written  during  the  composition  of  The 
Beach  of  Folesd,  has  commented  on  the  difficulty 
of  clinging  to  a  certain  tone  of  style  and  never 
writing  off  the  key;  and  this  difficulty  may  be 
regarded  as  one  of  the  surest  tests  of  a  play- 
wright's firmness  of  purpose. 


XVI 

WHERE  TO  BEGIN  A  PLAY 

If  we  look  at  a  procession  in  the  street,  we 
can  see  easily,  at  any  moment,  only  three  blocks 
of  it,  though  we  may  remember  what  has  gone 
before  and  may  imagine  what  is  to  come  after. 
And  if  we  were  commissioned  to  take  one  photo- 
graph, and  only  one,  of  the  parade,  we  should 
have  to  select  that  single  brief  period  of  its  pas- 
sage which  was  at  the  same  time  most  interesting 
in  itself,  most  reminiscent  of  all  that  had  pre- 
ceded, and  most  suggestive  of  all  that  was  to 
follow. 

Any  story  of  human  life  that  is  worth  telling 
in  a  novel  or  a  play  must  concern  itself  with  a 
procession  of  events  that  in  reality  is  limitless ; 
but  the  novelist,  restricted  to  a  few  hundred 
pages,  or  the  dramatist,  restricted  still  more 
rigidly  to  the  two  or  three  hours'  traffic  of  the 
stage,  can  exhibit  only  a  brief  and  bounded  pic- 
ture of  the  eternal  sequence  of  causation  and  re- 
sult. To  state  the  problem  more  simply,  —  a 
novel  or  a  play  must  assume  a  beginning  and  an 
end;  but  life  itself  knows  neither.     Any  actual 

175 


176         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

event  is,  in  the  inspired  phrase  of  WJiitman,  "  an 
acme  of  things  accomplished  and  an  encloser  of 
things  to  be  " :  it  is  at  once  the  result  of  innumer- 
able antecedent  causes  and  the  motive  of  innumer- 
able subsequent  results :  and  to  dream  our  way 
backward  or  forward  over  the  procession  of  events 
of  which  it  is  a  momentary  incident  must  lead  us 
soon  to  lose  our  minds  in  m3^stery,  before  the 
dawn  or  later  than  the  dusk  of  imaginable  time. 
With  this  eternal  panorama  of  experience,  our 
concrete  art  can  cope  only  by  halting  the  pro- 
cession at  some  particularly  interesting  moment 
and  catching  a  sudden  picture  that  shall  look  a 
little  beyond,  in  both  directions,  the  single  inci- 
dent on  which  the  camera  is  focused. 

Just  as  different  pictures  of  the  same  proces- 
sion in  the  street  may  be  chosen  by  photographers 
who  snap  their  cameras  at  different  moments,  so 
various  stories  might  be  selected  from  the  same 
procession  of  events  b}'^  novelists  or  playwrights 
who  should  pick  out  different  moments  to  begin 
and  end  their  narratives.  Any  story,  to  attract 
and  to  enthrall  attention,  must  exhibit  the  crisis, 
or  climax,  of  a  series  of  events ;  but  the  individual 
artist  is  left  at  liberty  to  determine  how  far  be- 
fore this  crisis  he  shall  set  the  initiation  of  his 
narrative  and  how  far  beyond  it  he  shall  set  the 
end.  If  he  is  interested  mainly  in  causes,  he  will 
choose  to  depict  in  detail  the  events  that  lead  up 


WHERE  TO  BEGIN  A  PLAY        177 

to  his  climax;  and  if  he  is  interested  mainly  in 
effects,  he  will  prefer  to  devote  the  major  share 
of  his  attention  to  those  subsequent  events  that 
are  occasioned  by  his  crisis.  Thus  we  discover  in 
practice  two  types  of  narratives,  —  in  one  of 
which  the  main  events  look  forward  and  are  inter- 
esting chiefly  as  causes,  and  in  the  other  of  which 
the  main  events  look  backward  and  are  interesting 
chiefly  as   results. 

We  may  select  for  purposes  of  illustration  the 
subject-matter  of  The  Scarlet  Letter.  The  crisis, 
or  climax,  of  this  imaginary  train  of  incidents  is 
the  adultery  of  Hester  Prynne  and  Arthur  Dim- 
mesdale.  Hawthorne  has  chosen  to  start  his  story 
at  a  moment  subsequent  to  the  occurrence  of  this 
crisis  and  to  devote  his  attention  entirely  to  a 
study  of  the  after-effects  of  the  committed  sin  on 
the  souls  of  the  three  characters  concerned ;  but 
it  is  conceivable  that  another  novelist  —  George 
Eliot,  for  instance  —  might  have  begun  the  story 
many  years  before  and  might  have  chosen  to  deal 
mainly  with  the  causes  that  culminated  in  the 
crisis  that  Hawthorne  has  assumed  as  a  condition 
precedent  to  his  narrative.  Thus  we  see  that  two 
stories  wholly  different  in  plot  might  be  derived 
from  the  same  procession  of  events,  according  as 
the  novelist  should  choose  to  begin  his  narrative 
late  or  early  in  the  sequence  of  causation. 

Undoubtedly  —  in  the  single  instance  we  have 


178         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

glanced  at  —  Hawthorne  began  his  narrative  af- 
ter the  crisis  because  The  Scarlet  Letter  was  his 
first  novel  and  he  had  been  writing  short-stories 
for  over  twenty  years.  Naturally  enough,  he  con- 
structed this  novel  as  if  it  were  a  short-story. 
The  writer  of  short-stories  is  so  strictly  limited 
to  economy  of  means  that  he  must  deal  mainly 
with  results  and  must  ask  the  reader  to  assume 
the  antecedent  causes ;  but  the  novelist,  with  his 
ampler  scope  of  narrative,  may  deal  with  causes 
in  detail  and  may  presume  in  hasty  summary  the 
subsequent  results.  The  handling  of  the  story  of 
The  Scarlet  Letter  which  we  have  assigned  theo- 
retically to  George  Eliot  is  more  typical  of  the 
method  of  the  novelist  than  the  short-story  struc- 
ture which  was  imposed  upon  the  subject-matter 
by  the  man  who  gave  the  story  to  the  world. 

In  different  periods  of  its  development,  the 
drama  has  oscillated  between  these  two  extremes 
of  treatment,  and  has  approached  cither  the  strict- 
ness of  structure  that  is  characteristic  of  the 
short-story  or  the  more  easy  amplitude  of  narra- 
tive that  is  customary  in  the  novel.  In  certain 
periods  it  has  concerned  .  itself  mainly  with 
causes,  and  in  others  chiefly  with  results. 

The  structure  of  Greek  tragedy  was  singularly 
similar  to  the  structure  of  the  modern  short-story. 
There  are  many  obvious  reasons  for  this  analogy. 
In  the  first  place,  the  physical  conditions  of  the 


WHERE  TO  BEGIN  A  TLAY        179 

Greek  theatre  made  it  most  convenient  for  the 
playwright  to  restrict  his  exhibition  to  a  single 
place  and  to  confine  his  action  within  a  single 
revolution  of  the  sun;  and  in  the  second  place, 
the  fact  that  the  Greek  playwright  dealt  only 
with  traditional  materials  permitted  him  to  pre- 
suppose, on  the  part  of  his  audience,  a  knowl- 
edge of  his  entire  story  that  should  warrant  him 
in  assuming  any  number  of  incidents  as  having 
happened  in  imagination  before  the  play  began. 
Thus,  at  the  performance  of  (Edipus  King,  the 
audience  merely  waited  breathless  while  the  hero 
discovered  that  appalling  inheritance  of  the  ac- 
cumulated past,  of  which  the  audience  was  thor- 
oughly aware  before  the  play  began.  The  tragedy 
dealt  wholly  with  results,  and  not  at  all  with 
causes. 

The  other  extreme  of  structure  is  exhibited  in 
the  Elizabethan  drama.  In  studying  the  plays 
of  Shakespeare,  we  should  remember  always  that 
nearly  all  of  them  were  dramatized  novels  and  that 
the  conventions  of  the  Elizabethan  theatre  en- 
couraged what  may  be  called  a  "  novelistic " 
treatment  of  stories  on  the  stage.  Although  it 
was  only  with  apparent  difficulty  that  the  Greek 
playwright  could  alter  the  time  or  place  of  his 
action,  the  Elizabethan  playwright  could  denote 
a  lapse  of  years,  or  a  shift  of  scene  from  one 
country  to  another,  by  the  simple  expedient  of 


180         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

emptying  his  stage  and  bringing  other  actors  on 
to  state  the  new  conditions.  Using  the  term 
"  act  "  with  its  modern  technical  meaning,  it  may 
be  said  that  a  Greek  tragedy  was  constructed  in  a 
single  act ;  but  a  typical  Elizabethan  play  —  like 
Antony  and  Cleopatra  —  was  not  conceived  in 
acts,  but  in  an  ample  and  uncounted  sequence  of 
half  a  hundred  "  scenes."  Hence,  it  is  not  sur- 
prising that  Shakespeare,  like  a  nineteenth-cen- 
tury novelist,  devoted  more  of  his  attention  to  the 
development  of  causes  leading  up  to  his  crisis  than 
to  the  analysis   of  subsequent  results. 

But  the  modern  drama,  reduced  by  its  investi- 
ture of  scenery  to  the  arrangement  of  a  story 
in  not  more  than  three  or  four  distinct  pigeon- 
holes of  time  and  place,  has  returned  more  nearly 
to  the  Greek  method  of  exhibiting  a  story  in  a 
single  act  than  to  the  Elizabethan  method  of 
stretching  a  story  out  through  fifty  scenes.  The 
exigencies  of  the  modern  stage  apparently  de- 
mand that  the  dramatist  shall  start  his  story  at 
a  time  as  late  as  possible  in  his  procession  of 
events  and  shall  assume  the  necessary  antecedent 
incidents  in  passages  of  backward-looking  exposi- 
tion. Thus,  Ibsen's  Ghosts,  which  —  from  the 
technical  standpoint — is  one  of  the  very  greatest 
of  modern  plays,  is  constructed  according  to  the 
method  of  Sophocles  instead  of  the  method  of 
Shakespeare.      The   entire   narrative   that   is    re- 


WHERE  TO  BEGIN  A  PLAY        181 

counted  covers  nearly  thirty  years ;  and  yet  the 
actual  experience  that  is  exhibited  is  constricted 
within  the  compass  of  a  few  hours.  And  a  month 
after  we  have  seen  the  play,  we  remember  with 
equal  vividness  those  events  which  were  disclosed 
upon  the  stage  and  those  other  events  which  were 
merely  narrated  in  passages  of  retrospective 
exposition. 

Since  the  average  audience  in  any  period  ex- 
pects the  dramaturgic  method  to  which  it  is  habit- 
uated, it  follows  that  the  playwright  looking  for 
success  should  begin  his  story  late  or  early  in  his 
general  procession  of  events,  according  to  the 
fashion  of  his  time.  At  present  it  is  undeniably 
the  custom  of  the  most  highly  accredited  play- 
wrights to  catch  a  story  at  its  climax  and  to 
build  a  play  more  out  of  the  results  than  out  of 
the  causes  of  the  crisis  of  the  narrative.  For 
instance,  —  Aubrey  Tanqueray  decides  to  marry 
Paula ;  and  Pinero's  play  exhibits  not  the  causes 
leading  up  to  this  decision  but  the  tragic  series  of 
events  resultant  from  it. 

From  these  general  considerations  it  should  be 
evident  that  a  playwright,  in  any  period,  may 
spoil  a  good  story  by  beginning  his  play  at  the 
wrong  moment  and  exhibiting  an  ill-selected  sec- 
tion of  his  entire  drift  of  incident.  Ibsen  —  for 
example  —  spoiled  the  story  of  Kosmersholm  by 
beginning  his  play  at  a  point  too  far  along  in 


182         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

the  general  procession  of  events ;  and  many  other 
plays  have  been  spoiled  by  playwrights  who  have 
started  their  stories  too  far  before  the  crisis  of 
the  narrative.  Of  this  later  type,  an  interesting 
instance  is  offered  in  The  High  Road,  by  Mr.  Ed- 
ward Sheldon. 


XVII 

CONTINUITY  OF  STRUCTURE 

One  of  the  most  difficult  problems  of  the  mod- 
em dramatist  is  to  map  out  what  may  be  called 
the  "  time-scheme  "  of  his  play.  In  two  hours 
and  a  half  of  actual  acting  time,  he  must  exhibit 
an  imaginary  series  of  events  that  in  reality  would 
occupy  several  hours  or  days,  or  even,  in  some 
cases,  many  months  or  years;  and,  in  presenting 
these  events,  he  must  contrive  to  suggest  the  im- 
pression of  an  uninterrupted  continuity  of  narra- 
tive. He  is  aided  in  this  task  by  two  traditions 
of  the  drama.  The  first  of  these  is  the  immemorial 
convention  which  allows  him  to  assume  a  compres- 
sion of  time  during  the  progress  of  an  act;  and 
the  second  is  the  more  modern  convention  which 
permits  him  to  summarize  very  briefly  whatever 
may  have  happened  in  an  entr^acte.  But  an  in- 
judicious application  of  these  two  conventions 
may  lead  to  an  apparent  improbability  that  will 
violate  the  psychologic  truth  of  the  entire  narra- 
tive; and  it  is  therefore  necessary  that  the  modern 
dramatist  should  account  very  carefully  for  the 
lapse  of  time  that  is  imagined  between  the  out- 
set of  his  drama  and  the  end. 

183 


184.         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

This  careful  accounting  of  time  was  not  de- 
manded in  the  drama  of  any  period  before  the 
present.  The  authors  of  Greek  tragedy,  for  in- 
stance, were  not  obliged  to  plan  their  plays  with 
an  eye  upon  the  clock.  Greek  tragedy  exhibited 
merely  the  accumulated  effects  of  an  antecedent 
series  of  causes  stretching  back  through  many 
years ;  and,  expounding  their  stories  retrospec- 
tively, it  was  not  difficult  for  the  Attic  authors  to 
confine  the  time-scheme  of  their  tragedies  to  a 
single  revolution  of  the  sun.  A  Greek  play  was 
presented  without  intermission  and  occupied  about 
two  hours  of  actual  acting  time;  but  the  audience 
was  quite  willing  that  these  actual  two  hours 
should  be  regarded  as  representative  of  twenty 
hours.  In  other  words,  the  Greek  audience  ac- 
cepted the  convention  of  a  condensation  of  time 
in  the  ratio  of  ten  to  one.  Early  in  the  course 
of  (Edipus  King,  a  certain  shepherd  is  sent  for, 
and  he  appears  upon  the  scene  not  more  than  half 
an  hour  afterward,  although  in  actuality  he  could 
scarcely  have  been  found  in  less  than  half  a  day ; 
but  this  compression  of  time,  in  a  narrative  that 
was  logically  continuous,  did  not  insult  the  imagi- 
nation of  the  ancient  audience. 

The  Elizabethan  drama  did  not  even  attempt 
to  restrict  itself  to  a  ten  to  one  ratio  in  dealing 
with  the  element  of  time.  In  fact,  the  majority 
of  the  extant  Elizabethan  plays  exhibit  no  con- 


CONTINUITY  OF  STRUCTURE      185 

scious  time-scheme  whatsoever.  The  compositions 
of  this  period  were  probably  acted  without  any 
intermission ;  and  they  were  constructed,  not  in  a 
limited  number  of  acts,  but  in  an  unlimited  num- 
ber of  scenes.  In  consequence,  it  would  be  ex- 
ceedingly difficult  to  compute  the  precise  number 
of  days  that  are  assumed  to  have  elapsed  between 
the  first  scene  and  the  last  of  Hamlet  or  As  You 
Like  It,  for  example.  The  truth  is  that  such  a 
computation  never  occurred  to  the  winging  mind 
of  Shakespeare.  It  was  not  at  all  necessary  for 
him  to  work  out  a  time-scheme  of  Hamlet's  trip 
to  England  or  to  estimate  the  exact  duration  of 
Rosalind's  wanderings  in  the  Forest  of  Arden. 
The  stage  for  which  he  built  his  dramas  was  in- 
capable of  keeping  a  strict  account  of  either 
place  or  time. 

The  time-scheme  of  the  drama  became  a  little 
more  restricted  in  the  plays  of  Moliere,  and  of  his 
many  imitators  throughout  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury; but,  even  in  this  period,  scarcely  any 
account  was  taken  of  the  time  required  for  the 
actions  of  the  leading  characters  off  the  stage. 
Throughout  the  history  of  the  drama,  the  han- 
dling of  the  category  of  time  has  been  inextricably 
intertangled  with  the  handling  of  the  category 
of  place.  In  the  eighteenth  century,  a  room  was 
represented  by  a  back-drop  and  wings ;  and  an 
actor  left  the  room  by  walking  through  the  walls. 


186         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

In  such  a  play  as  The  Rivals,  a  character  walked 
bodily  out  of  the  story  when  he  left  the  stage,  and 
he  did  not  again  enter  into  the  narrative  until  he 
was  once  more  needed  on  the  scene.  What  he  had 
been  doing  in  the  meantime,  and  how  many  hours 
were  required  for  this  activity  beyond  the  limits 
of  the  stage,  were  not  accounted  for  in  the  sub- 
sequent spectacle  of  narrative.  The  play  con- 
cerned itself  solely  with  those  events  that  hap- 
pened to  the  eye  within  the  limited  compass  of  the 
two  hours'  traffic  of  the  stage. 

But  the  modern  drama,  with  its  precise  insist- 
ence upon  localization  in  place,  assumes  an  equally 
precise  insistence  upon  localization  in  time. 
Whenever  an  actor  makes  an  exit  from  a  modern 
box-set,  the  audience  demands  to  know  whether 
he  is  going  into  an  adjacent  room  or  quitting  the 
house;  and  this  demand  requires  an  explanation  of 
how  he  occupies  himself  throughout  the  period  that 
intervenes  before  his  reappearance  on  the  scene. 
Thus,  the  physical  conditions  of  the  modem  the- 
atre impose  upon  the  playwright  a  new  unity  of 
time  by  demanding  an  accounting  of  the  actions 
of  his  leading  characters  not  only  on,  but  also  off, 
the  stage. 

This  unity  of  time  is  very  skilfully  achieved  in 
La  Flamhee,  a  three-act  drama  by  the  Belgian 
playwright  M.  Henry  Kistemaeckers,  which  was 
presented  in  New  York  with  the  altered  title  of 


CONTINUITY  OF  STRUCTURE      187 

The  Spy.  The  story  happens  at  a  house-party 
in  a  baronial  chateau.  The  action  opens  after 
dinner  on  a  certain  evening  and  closes  at  nine 
o'clock  on  the  following  morning;  and  the  struc- 
ture is  so  continuous  that  the  movements  of  the 
leading  characters  are  accounted  for  through 
every  hour  of  the  night.  After  reading  or  seeing 
the  play,  we  seem  to  have  experienced  not  only 
those  incidents  which  happened  on  the  stage  but 
also  all  the  other  incidents  of  the  story  which 
happened  off  the  stage  between  the  acts.  The 
narrative  progresses  even  more  vigorously  when 
the  curtain  is  down  than  when  it  is  up.  This 
extraordinary  drama  is  in  many  ways  a  master- 
piece of  art;  but  the  best  of  all  its  merits  is  its 
uninterrupted  continuity  of  structure. 


XVIII 
RHYTHM  AND  TEMPO 

There  is  one  phase  of  the  dramatic  art  which 
has  rarely  been  discussed  by  critics  and  is  scarcely 
ever  noticed  by  the  average  theatre-goer.  Every- 
body knows  that  the  drama  is  both  a  visual  and  an 
auditory  art,  —  that,  by  virtue  of  its  appeal  to 
the  eye,  it  offers  many  analogies  to  the  art  of 
painting,  and  that,  by  virtue  of  its  appeal  to  the 
ear  through  its  use  of  spoken  words,  it  exhibits 
innumerable  analogies  to  the  art  of  literature. 
But  comparatively  few  people  have  ever  paused  to 
realize  that  the  drama  is  also  a  temporal  art, 
owing  much  of  its  appeal  to  its  manner  of  punc- 
tuating passages  of  time,  and  that,  by  virtue  of 
this  fact,  it  discloses  an  analogy  to  the  art  of 
music.  The  merit  of  many  dramatic  scenes  is 
resident  in  the  sheer  rhythm  of  their  presenta- 
tion and  the  deft  manipulation  of  this  rhythm  in 
the  tempo  of  the  acting. 

The  appeal  of  rhythm  to  the  human  sensibilities 
is  the  very  basis  of  the  arts  of  poetry  and  music. 
The  periodical  repetition  of  certain  beats,  un- 
assisted by  any  more   intelligible  method  of  ex- 

188 


RHYTHM  AND  TEMPO  189 

pression,  may  stimulate  tlie  listener  to  an  eager 
apprehension  of  emotion.  To  prove  this,  it  is 
only  necessary  to  cite,  for  the  purpose  of  experi- 
ment, two  very  well-known  lines  of  poetry.  The 
first  line  is — 

When  the  hounds  of  spring  are  on  winter's  traces 

And  the  other  line  is — 

The  long  day  wanes:  the  slow  moon  climbs:  the  deep 

In  each  of  these  citations,  I  have  purposely  quoted 
only  a  single  line,  leaving  the  sense  unfinished ;  for 
the  experiment  I  am  about  to  propose  deals  only 
with  the  rhythm  of  the  lines  and  has  no  reference 
to  their  intelligible  content.  Let  me  now  ask  the 
reader  to  repeat  the  first  line  to  himself  a  hundred 
times,  and,  after  an  appreciable  interval,  to  sub- 
mit himself  to  a  similar  insistence  from  the  second 
line.  If  his  mind  have  any  ear  at  all,  the  first 
experiment  will  induce  a  noticeable  quickening 
of  his  pulses  and  the  second  experiment  will  re- 
tard his  pulse-beats  to  a  less  than  normal  tempo. 
In  the  first  case,  his  mind  will  be  keyed  up  to  the 
apprehension  of  dashing  and  alert  emotions,  and, 
in  the  second,  it  will  be  attuned  to  the  reception 
of  emotions  that  are  somnolent  and  solemn. 

The   psychology   of   this   experiment   sits   very 
near  the  center  of  the  art  of  writing;  but  it  may. 


190         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

perhaps,  be  illustrated  more  emphatically  by  the 
art  of  music.  Every  musical  composer  indicates 
not  only  the  notes  he  wishes  to  be  played  but  also 
the  tempo  in  which  he  wants  them  to  be  ren- 
dered, knowing  that  the  emotional  message  of  his 
phrases  may  be  altered  utterly  by  a  faulty  re- 
tarding or  acceleration  of  the  rhythm  that  he  has 
imagined.  A  familiar  experiment  is  to  play 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee  in  rag-time,  and  thus 
to  rob  the  melody  of  all  its  somber  connotation. 
The  opening  bars  of  the  Moonlight  Sonata  may 
be  made  ridiculous  by  playing  them  very  rapidly, 
and  Anitra's  Dance  may  be  robbed  of  all  its  gaiety 
by  playing  it  very  slowly :  and  these  changes  of 
appeal  may  be  effected  without  the  alteration  of 
a  single  note. 

The  acted  drama,  since  it  is  doomed  to  present 
a  pattern  of  details  in  time,  is  subject  to  the  same 
psychologic  law  which  haunts  these  other  tem- 
poral arts  of  poetry  and  music.  Certain  scenes 
can  be  properly  effective  only  if  they  are  played 
in  very  rapid  tempo,  and  certain  other  passages 
can  easily  be  ruined  by  an  ill-advised  acceleration 
of  the  acting.  The  consideration  of  this  fact 
results  in  certain  rules  which  must  be  followed 
by  the  playwright  and  the  stage-director. 

The  true  artist  in  either  of  these  crafts  senses 
these  rules  intuitively  and  abides  by  them  sub- 
consciously;   and    it    is    only    when    the    rules    of 


RHYTHM  AND  TEMPO  191 

rhythm  are  violated  that  the  observer  becomes  at 
all  aware  of  the  reality  of  their  subsistence.  A 
dramatic  passage  aften  requires  a  series  of  very 
subtle  modulations  in  the  rhythm  of  its  presenta- 
tion; and  if  it  be  enacted  crudely,  with  invariable 
tempo,  the  observer  will  receive  an  impression  of 
indefinite  distress,  like  that  which  comes  of  hear- 
ing a  Neapolitan  song  played  solely  with  the  feet 
upon  a  pianola. 

Only  the  most  obvious  rules  of  rhythm  for  the 
drama  may  be  set  down  in  uncompromising  print, 
like  the  axioms  of  Euclid.  For  instance,  it  is 
obvious  that  most  melodramas  should  be  played 
very  rapidly,  in  order  to  stimulate  excitement 
and  also  to  rob  the  audience  of  any  opportunity 
to  question  the  plausibility  of  the  situations ;  and 
it  is  equally  obvious,  upon  the  other  hand,  that 
most  tragic  scenes  should  be  enacted  slowly,  in 
order  to  give  the  audience  time  to  accumulate  a 
sense  of  the  imminence  of  doom  before  the  fateful 
lines  are  spoken.  The  majority  of  farces  demand 
a  very  rapid  rendering,  and  the  acceleration  of 
the  acting  needs  to  be  increased  in  proportion  as 
the  farcical  material  treads  closer  on  the  heels  of 
the  ridiculous ;  but  a  comedy  that  depends  for  its 
effect  on  the  subtle  revelation  of  character 
through  humorous  dialogue  must  usually  be  played 
with  frequent  pauses,  in  order  to  give  the  audi- 
ence time  to  develop  thoughtful  laughter.     Such 


192         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

elementary  principles  as  these  may  be  formulated 
and  set  down  as  axioms;  but,  just  as  poetry  and 
music  attain  their  best  effects  by  subtle  variations 
in  rhythm  and  modulations  of  tempo,  so  also  the 
finest  effects  in  the  theatre  are  not  infrequently 
achieved  by  momentary  modifications  of  an  ex- 
pected time-scheme  in  the  acting. 

For  the  manipulation  of  such  effects  as  these, 
the  stage-director  is  finally  responsible.  This 
functionary  has  often  been  compared  with  the 
leader  of  an  orchestra.  He  establishes  the  tempo 
in  which  a  composition  shall  be  rendered,  and  may 
often  make  or  mar  it  by  the  mere  direction  of  its 
rhythm.  But  the  dominance  of  the  stage-director 
does  not  relieve  the  pla3rwright  of  responsibility  in 
this  regard.  An  orchestral  composer  who  should 
hand  a  score  to  his  conductor  without  any  indi- 
cation of  the  tempo  of  his  leading  passages  would 
be  deemed  an  inefficient  artist ;  and  any  play- 
wright who  plans  an  act  without  establishing  its 
rhythm  in  advance  sets  himself  similarly  in  the 
class  of  incomplete  composers.  In  the  plotting  of 
his  business  and  in  the  writing  of  his  lines,  he 
should  make  it  easy  for  his  stage-director  to  ar- 
range the  rapidity  or  sluggishness  of  rhythm 
that  is  required  to  reinforce  the  emotional  content 
of  his  scene.  To  ask  his  actors  to  sit  still  at  a 
moment  when  the  action  should  be  hurried,  to  re- 
quire them  to  speak  in  anapests  while  they  are 


RHYTHM  AND  TEMPO  193 

listening  in  fear  to  the  tardy  ticking  of  a  clock, 
—  these  are  errors  which  impose  upon  the  stage- 
director  a  task  which  is  unfortunately  difficult. 

This  matter  should  be  studied  very  carefully 
by  all  aspirants  to  the  art  of  dramaturgy.  A 
simple  exercise  may  be  suggested  for  the  benefit 
of  readers  who  desire  ultimately  to  write  plays 
or  to  direct  them.  Let  them  take  a  scene  from 
Hamlet  and  another  from  The  Thunderbolt  and 
ask  themselves  precisely  how  rapidly  or  slowly 
these  passages  should  be  played  in  order  to 
achieve  their  best  effect  upon  the  stage.  Let  them, 
if  necessary,  experiment  with  a  metronome  until 
they  get  the  rhythm  right.  Subsequently,  in  at- 
tending the  performances  of  successful  current 
plays,  these  studious  spectators  will  be  better  en- 
abled to  appreciate  to  what  a  great  extent  their 
appeal  has  been  enhanced  by  a  deft  manipulation 
of  the  rhythm  of  their  presentation. 


XIX 

THE  PLAYS  OF  YESTERYEAR 

In  the  eleventh  chapter  of  Other  Days,  by  Mr. 
William  Winter,  —  a  wistfully  pathetic  volume  in 
which  the  author  eloquently  recollects  the  high 
delight  he  used  to  take  in  going  to  the  theatre 
half  a  century  ago,  —  the  following  statements 
may  be  found :  "  It  is  undeniable  that  the  condi- 
tion of  the  American  Stage,  at  present,  is  un- 
satisfactory to  persons  who  possess  judgment, 
knowledge,  and  taste.  .  .  .  The  pendulum, — 
which  is  always  swinging,  —  has  swung  back- 
ward. The  character  of  the  Theatre  has  deterio- 
rated, and  there  has  been  a  corresponding  de- 
terioration in  the  character  of  its  followers.  .  .  . 
The  immediate  point  is  that  the  present  day  hap- 
pens to  be  a  day  of  theatrical  decline.  There  has 
not  been  a  time  in  the  history  of  the  American 
Stage  when  the  Theatre  received  so  much  atten- 
tion as  it  receives  now,  from  the  Public  and  the 
Press,  and  there  has  not  been  a  time  when  the 
quality  of  its  average  presentments  so  little  de- 
served the  respect  of  intellect  and  judicious  taste. 
.  .  .  The   theatrical    audience    of    this    period   is 

194 


THE  TLAYS  OF  YESTERYEAR     195 

largely  composed  of  vulgarians,  who  know  noth- 
ing about  art  or  literature  and  who  care  for  noth- 
ing but  the  solace  of  their  common  tastes  and 
animal  appetites :  on  that  point  observation  of 
the  faces  and  manners  of  the  multitude  would  sat- 
isfy any  thoughtful  observer.  .  .  .  The  stage  has 
*  fallen  on  evil  days.'  The  pendulum  may  swing 
forward  again,  by  and  by,  and  the  tide  may  rise 
again,  but  no  indications  are  now  visible  that  a 
change  for  the  better  is  near  at  hand." 

If  these  statements  were  true,  no  consideration 
in  the  world  could  tempt  the  present  commentator 
to  waste  his  evenings  in  so  degenerate  a  theatre, 
nor  to  waste  his  mind  in  the  analysis  of  such  in- 
significant material.  But  Mr.  Winter's  statements 
are  not  true.  The  truth  of  the  matter  is  that 
there  has  never  been  another  time  within  its  cen- 
tury of  history  when  the  American  Theatre  has 
been  patronized  by  so  many  "  persons  who  possess 
judgment,  knowledge,  and  taste,"  nor  when  so 
many  new  plays  have  been  presented  every  year 
which  "  deserved  the  respect  of  intellect  and 
judicious  taste."  The  pendulum  is  swinging  for- 
ward with  a  tidal  chant ;  and  the  quality  of  our 
dramatic  art  and  the  judgment  of  our  audiences 
have  risen  steadily  for  fifty  years  and  now  are 
rising  more  rapidly  than  heretofore. 

Mr.  Winter's  disparagement  of  the  contempo- 
rary theatre-going  public  is  sufficiently  disproved 


196         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

by  the  civic  success  of  Mr.  Richard  Bennett's  re- 
cent production  of  Damaged  Goods,  a  translation 
by  John  Pollock  of  the  famous  work  of  Eugene 
Brieux  entitled  Les  Avaries.  This  piece  was  not 
intended  as  an  entertainment:  it  is  a  clinical  dis- 
quisition upon  one  of  the  most  terrible  of  civic 
sores  by  the  greatest  living  Professor  of  Social 
Hygiene.  The  purpose  and  the  method  of  the 
preachment  may  best  be  indicated  by  the  follow- 
ing words,  which  were  composed  by  the  author  to 
be  spoken  as  a  prologue  at  the  first  and  only  pres- 
entation of  the  piece  in  Paris  in  1902:  —  "The 
object  of  this  play  is  a  study  of  the  disease  of 
syphilis  in  its  bearing  on  marriage.  It  contains 
no  scene  to  provoke  scandal  or  arouse  disgust, 
nor  is  there  in  it  any  obscene  word ;  and  it  may 
be  witnessed  by  every  one,  unless  we  must  believe 
that  folly  and  ignorance  are  necessary  conditions 
of  female  virtue." 

The  interest  of  this  work  is  wholly  intellectual ; 
and  since  it  offers  no  allurement  to  the  prurient, 
and  no  entertainment  to  the  idle-minded,  one 
might  have  supposed  that  it  would  have  appealed 
only  to  a  small  and  special  audience.  It  was  first 
presented  in  New  York  at  two  private  matinees, 
held  under  the  auspices  of  the  Sociological  Fund 
of  the  Medical  Review  of  Reviews;  but,  in  response 
to  a  general  and  imdcniablc  demand,  it  has  since 
been  offered  to  the  public  as  a  regular  attraction 


THE  PLAYS  OF  YESTERYEAR     197 

in  all  the  leading  cities  of  this  country.  In  the 
first  six  weeks  of  its  run  at  the  Fulton  Theatre 
in  New  York,  over  fifty  thousand  people  witnessed 
the  production;  over  fifty  thousand  people  paid 
their  money  to  listen  to  a  lecture  by  the 
most  earnest-minded  dramatist  of  contemporary 
France. 

This  phenomenon  seemed  of  sufficient  impor- 
tance to  the  present  commentator  to  induce  him 
to  look  in  at  the  performance  of  Les  Avaries  on 
four  or  five  occasions.  Could  it  be  possible,  one 
wondered,  that  so  eager  an  audience  could  be  — 
in  Mr.  William  Winter's  words  —  "  largely  com- 
posed of  vulgarians  "?  .  .  .  On  each  occasion, 
the  first  hasty  "  observation  of  the  faces  and  the 
manners  of  the  multitude  "  was  completely  reas- 
suring. The  theatre  housed  no  smutty-minded 
idlers.  Such  spectators  as  admire  the  half- 
dressed  chorus  of  the  Ziegfeld  Follies  were  con- 
spicuously absent.  The  auditorium  was  filled  to 
the  final  row  with  people  who  looked  like  those  who 
habitually  furnish  audiences  for  the  great  Free 
Lecture  System  of  the  Board  of  Education. 
They  were  earnestly  eager  to  inform  themselves 
of  "  the  best  that  is  known  and  thought  in  the 
world."  Perhaps  the  majority  of  the  auditors 
were  men,  —  the  sort  of  men  who  toil  in  Social 
Settlements  to  ameliorate  the  lot  of  their  less 
lucky     fellow-citizens ;     but     it     was,     upon     the 


19S         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

whole,  more  interesting  to  observe  the  women 
in  the  audience.  They  were  the  sort  of  women 
who  teach  school,  or  work  in  other  worthy 
ways  to  support  the  society  that  supports 
them.  The  type  of  woman  who  meekly  allows  her- 
self to  be  kept  by  her  father  or  her  husband  and 
offers  the  world  no  intellectual  return  for  the 
energy  that  is  expended  to  maintain  her  in  a 
desuetude  that  is  at  best  innocuous  seemed 
scarcely  to  figure  in  the  audience.  Many  of  the 
women  auditors  were  young;  and  it  was  gratify- 
ing to  observe  that  they  listened  to  the  lecture 
of  the  great  Brieux  without  a  simper  or  a  blush. 
They  would  have  denied  indignantly  that  "  folly 
and  ignorance  are  necessary  conditions  of  female 
virtue  " ;  and  they  went  away  informed  of  many 
important  facts  which  otherwise  might  not  have 
been  brought  to  their  attention. 

Would  Mr.  William  Winter  venture  to  main- 
tain that  such  an  audience  as  this  could  possibly 
have  been  assembled,  for  six  weeks  running,  in 
any  theatre  of  New  York  half  a  century 
ago? 

Mr.  Winter's  other  contention,  that  "  there  has 
not  been  a  time  in  the  history  of  the  American 
Stage  when  the  quality  of  its  average  present- 
ments so  little  deserved  the  respect  of  intellect  and 
judicious  taste,"  can,  fortunately,  be  disproved 
with  equal  ease.      In   recent  years  it  has  become 


THE  PLAYS  OF  YESTERYEAR     199 

the  custom  of  many  managers  to  devote  the  spring 
season  to  the  revival  of  old  plays ;  and  several  of 
the  pieces  that  have  thus  been  resurrected  have 
cured  us  of  any  sentimental  sighing  for  "  the 
good  old  days."  How  lucky,  on  the  contrary,  we 
are,  to  have  escaped  the  era  of  The  Lady  of 
Lyons  and  to  have  been  born  in  an  age  when  such 
writers  as  Pinero  and  Maeterlinck,  Hauptmann 
and  Barrie,  Shaw  and  Sudermann,  Galsworthy  and 
Brieux,  are  devoting  their  mental  energies  simul- 
taneously to  the  traffic  of  the  stage ! 

It  is  surely  not  unfair  to  Mr.  Winter  to  take 
the  recent  adequate  revival  of  Lester  Wallack's 
Rosedale  as  a  text  for  considering  what  he  has 
assumed  as  a  "  deterioration  "  in  "  the  character 
of  the  Theatre  "  in  America.  Rosedale  was  by 
far  the  most  successful  play  that  was  presented 
in  America  in  the  decade  of  the  eighteen-sixties, 
and  there  seems  no  reason  to  doubt  that  it  was  one 
of  the  best  plays  of  that  epoch.  In  its  first  sea- 
son, 1863,  it  ran  for  one  hundred  and  twenty-five 
performances,  thereby  setting  a  new  record  for 
American  theatres ;  and  it  played,  at  the  same 
time,  to  receipts  that  averaged  $900  a  perform- 
ance, —  a  sum  looked  upon,  in  that  period,  as  un- 
precedented and  likely  never  to  be  surpassed. 
The  piece  was  received  with  scarcely  less  acclaim 
when  it  was  revived  in  1865,  1868,  1871,  and 
1874.     Surely  it  seems  not  unfair  to  accept  this 


200         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

enormously  successful  work  as  a  representative  ex- 
ample of  the  dramaturgy  of  its  period. 

Yet  how  does  Rosedale  look  to-day  "  to  persons 
who  possess  judgment,  knowledge,  and  taste"? 
It  seems,  in  comparison  with  only  our  second-best 
contemporary  efforts,  a  mass  of  childish  non- 
sense. This  impression  is  not  owing  to  the  fact 
that  its  dramaturgic  method  is  old-fashioned. 
Old  fashions  may  be  good  fashions,  in  the  theatre 
as  in  life ;  and  a  modern  audience  does  not  find  it 
difficult  to  accept  the  immeasurably  more  anti- 
quated technical  devices  of  Moliere  or  Shakespeare 
or  even  Sophocles.  This  fact  was  proved  recently 
by  the  deep  impression  made  upon  artistic  minds 
by  the  production  of  The  Yellow  Jacket,  —  a 
play  that  easily  conveyed  its  delicious  blend  of 
poetry  and  humor  by  the  uncustomary  and  naive 
conventions  of  the  Chinese  stage.  If  Rosedale 
seems  unsatisfactory  to-day,  it  is  not  because  of 
its  soliloquies  and  its  asides,  its  alternation  of 
front  and  back  scenes,  its  symmetrical  balancing 
of  character  against  character  and  mood  against 
mood,  or  its  dialogue  of  labored  and  artificial 
prose.  These  were  merely  technical  conventions 
in  Lester  Wallack's  day ;  and  a  reasonable  mind 
will  always  accept  any  convention  of  expression 
for  the  sake  of  receiving  the  thought  to  be  ex- 
pressed. The  play  seems  silly  to  us  now  for  a 
deeper  and  a  more  important  reason.     It  is  silly 


THE  PLAYS  OF  YESTERYEAR     201 

because  it  consciously  and  deliberately  tells  lies 
about  life. 

And  here  we  set  our  finger  on  the  difference 
between  the  best  plays  of  fifty  years  ago  and  the 
best  efforts  of  our  drama  of  to-day.  When  Mr. 
Winter  was  a  young  man,  people  went  to  the  the- 
atre to  be  told  lies  about  life:  nowadays  they  go 
to  the  theatre  to  be  told  some  serious  and  search- 
ing truth.  This  may  seem  an  extreme  statement ; 
but  it  may  be  verified  by  anybody  who  will  take 
the  trouble  to  compare  The  Lady  of  Lyons  — 
which  is  probably  the  best  English  play  of  the 
cighteen-thirties  —  with  such  a  piece  as  Mr.  Gals- 
worthy's The  Pigeon  —  which  is  only  one  of  a 
dozen  of  the  best  English  plays  that  have  been 
written  in  the  last  few  years. 

The  purpose  of  every  artistic  endeavor  is  to 
tell  the  truth ;  and  no  effort  that  is  not  actuated 
by  this  aim  is  worthy  of  the  name  of  art.  Half 
a  century  ago  the  drama,  in  the  English  lan- 
guage, had  ceased  to  be  an  art ;  and  it  has  re- 
sumed the  responsibility  and  the  dignity  of  art 
only  in  the  last  twenty  years.  In  Rosedale,  for 
example,  no  effort  whatsoever  was  made  to  hold 
the  mirror  up  to  nature.  The  characters  are 
false  to  life,  the  incidents  are  false  to  life,  the 
plot  is  impossible,  and  the  dialogue  is  lacking  in 
any  suggestion  of  veracity.  But  if  these  accusa- 
tions should  be  fairly  made  against  a  new  con- 


202         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

temporary  play,  it  would  speedily  be  derided  to 
oblivion. 

It  is  an  interesting  fact  that  no  one  thought  of 
urging  these  objections  in  the  period  when  Rose- 
dale  was  produced.  No  one  thought,  at  that 
time,  that  it  was  the  duty  of  the  drama  to  en- 
deavor to  fulfil  the  aim  of  art.  Otherwise  this 
childish  composition  could  never  have  been  so 
highly  vaunted  at  a  time  when  Thackeray  and 
Dickens  had  already  accomplished  their  great 
labors  and  when  George  Eliot  and  George  Mere- 
dith were  at  the  height  of  their  powers.  How  — 
unless  the  theatre  was  smilingly  regarded  as  a 
realm  of  triviality  —  could  any  intelligent  per- 
son of  the  eighteen-sixties  read  such  a  novel  as 
The  Ordeal  of  Richard  Feverel  and  subsequently 
sit  through  such  a  play  as  Rosedale? 

It  is  only  lately  that  the  drama  has  caught  up 
with  the  novel  as  a  medium  for  expressing  an  ar- 
tistic view  of  life,  —  that  is  to  say,  a  vision  of  life 
that  is  actuated  by  the  high  endeavor  to  enlarge 
the  horizon  of  our  understanding.  The  sum-total 
of  what  we  know  of  human  character  has  been  in- 
creased by  Pinero,  Jones,  Barrie,  Galsworthy, 
Barker,  and  many  other  English-writing  play- 
wrights of  the  present  period ;  but  it  seems 
scarcely  an  exaggeration  to  say  that  it  was,  to  all 
intents  and  purposes,  decreased  by  the  play- 
wrights of  half  a  century  ago.     For,  though  peo- 


THE  PLAYS  OF  YESTERYEAR     203 

pie  must  have  known  in  1863  that  Lester  Wallack 
was  lying,  his  piece  was  so  effective  in  the  theatre 
as  to  woo  them  for  the  moment  to  forget  that 
they  knew  better  than  to  believe  the  lies  he  told 
them. 

When  our  modern  drama,  in  the  hands  of  Hen- 
rik  Ibsen,  began  anew  to  illuminate  the  world  with 
the  torch  of  truth,  it  was  assailed  on  all  sides  as 
"  immoral "  by  people  whose  minds  had  been 
drugged  and  drowsed  by  easy  and  amiable  lies. 
This  is  the  accusation  that  is  always  raised  by  the 
unilluminated  multitude  against  the  Teacher  who 
causes  the  light  to  shine  before  them ;  and  it  is 
upon  the  basis  of  this  accusation  that,  in  every 
age,  they  crucify  him.  Doubtless,  at  the  present 
time,  there  are  many  who  would  accuse  Eugene 
Brieux  of  "  immorality "  because,  in  Damaged 
Goods,  he  has  dared  to  wage  war  against  that 
horrible  conspiracy  of  silence  which  continues  to 
submit  thousands  of  the  innocent  ignorant  to  the 
infection  ef  a  devastating  disease  of  whose  na- 
ture they  are  unaware.  But  the  only  immorality 
of  which  art  is  really  capable  is  the  immorality 
of  bearing  false  witness  against  life;  and  it  is 
just  as  immoral  to  make  life  appear  more  easy 
than  it  is  as  to  make  it  appear  more  difficult. 
We  are  learning  at  last  that  such  a  play  as  Rose- 
dale  is  immoral,  and  that  the  most  pernicious 
works  of  fiction  are  those  that  smilingly  assume 


204         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

what  may  be  called  a  girl's-boarding-school  out- 
look upon  life.  Rosedale  is  immoral  because  it 
teaches  the  doctrine  that  virtue  will  inevitably  be 
rewarded  and  villainy  will  always  reap  discom- 
fiture. This  is  an  easy  doctrine,  but  it  is 
not  true.  It  is  immoral,  also,  because  it 
teaches  that  all  people  may  be  divided  into 
sheep  and  goats  —  those  who  are  very,  very 
good  and  those  who  are  very,  very  bad — whereas 
we  know  that  human  character  is  so  complex  that 
no  final  and  sweeping  judgment  can  be  passed 
upon  the  infinite  entanglement  of  motives  that 
leads  to  the  lifting  of  a  little  finger.  There  is  no 
soul  so  pure  that  it  does  not  succumb  occasionally 
to  error;  there  is  no  soul  so  black  that  it  does  not 
rise  occasionally  to  the  height  of  human  heroism. 
Such  plays  as  this  teach  also  that  women  are  lov- 
able in  proportion  to  their  ignorance,  that  all 
good  people  are  handsome,  that  self-sacrifice  is  al- 
ways noble,  and  innumerable  other  doctrines  that 
are  devastating  to  the  mind.  God  defend  us  from 
the  "  sweet  and  wholesome  "  plays  of  yesteryear ! 
If  we  consider  Lester  Wallack's  Rosedale 
solely  from  the  theatrical,  and  not  at  all  from 
the  artistic,  point  of  view,  we  shall  not  find  it 
difficult  to  understand  its  enormous  popularity  in 
a  period  when  the  theatre  was  not  expected  to 
hold  the  mirror  up  to  nature.  Its  incidents  show 
no  reasonable  reference  to  life,  but  each  of  them 


THE  PLAYS  OF  YESTERYEAR     S05 

is  interesting  on  the  stage.  Its  characters  are 
not  related  to  humanity,  but  each  of  them  af- 
fords the  performer  an  opportunity  to  make  a 
successful  appeal  to  the  emotions  of  the  audience. 
The  dialogue  is  stilted  and  unnatural,  but  it  is 
studded  with  speeches  that  invite  applause. 

Rosedale  differs  from  the  dramas  of  to-day 
in  the  fact  that  it  emphasizes  the  person- 
alities of  the  actors,  whereas  our  contempo- 
rary pieces  emphasize  the  message  of  the 
author.  Fifty  years  ago  the  playwright  con- 
tented himself  with  concocting  a  dozen  effective 
acting  parts ;  but  nowadays  the  author  endeavors 
to  say  something  about  life,  and  uses  his  actors 
merely  as  media  for  the  expression  of  his  mean- 
ing. This  shift  of  attention  from  the  interpreta- 
tive to  the  creative  artist,  from  the  tricks  of  the 
performer  to  the  thoughts  of  the  writer,  has  been 
accomplished  only  recently  in  the  history  of  the 
American  theatre;  but  not  until  this  revolution 
was  accomplished  did  our  drama  begin  to  attain 
the  dignity  of  art.  Richelieu  —  though  it  was 
greatly  played  by  our  supreme  actor,  Edwin 
Booth  —  remained,  because  of  its  inflated  arti- 
ficiality, a  travesty  of  life ;  but  Hindle  Wakes  — 
though  it  be  played  by  nobody  in  particular  — 
conveys  a  criticism  of  life  that  convinces  us  of  the 
acuteness  of  Mr.  Stanley  Houghton's  mind.  In 
fifty  years  we  have  risen  from  the  suits  and  trap- 


206         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

pings  of  an   artificial  stage  to   a  real  region   of 
ideas. 

A  great  deal  of  nonsense  has  been  said  in  favor 
of  the  old  system  of  stock-companies.  This  sys- 
tem was  certainly  advantageous  to  the  actors,  but 
just  as  certainly  it  was  disadvantageous  to  the 
dramatist.  In  writing  such  a  play  as  Rosedale, 
the  author's  primary  concern  was  necessarily  to 
provide  a  striking  part  for  each  of  a  dozen  per- 
formers who  were  expected  by  their  special  public 
to  do  over  again,  in  the  new  play,  the  sort  of 
work  that  they  had  already  done  appealingly  in 
other  parts.  The  story  had  to  be  stopped  for 
three  minutes  to  allow  an  admired  actor,  Charles 
Fisher,  to  deliver  a  set  speech  in  praise  of  the 
physician's  calling,  though  this  monologue  had 
nothing  whatever  to  do  with  the  story  of  the 
play ;  and  Lester  Wallack  himself,  in  the  part  of 
the  soldier-hero,  could  not  deny  himself  the  op- 
portunity to  halt  the  plot  at  still  another  point 
in  order  to  tell  the  audience  at  length  what  a 
noble  thing  it  is  to  be  an  actor.  But  nowadays, 
with  no  stock-company  upon  his  hands,  the  author 
may  more  nearly  ape  the  modesty  of  nature  and 
project  a  picture  of  life  in  which  the  performers 
are  not  continually  taking  the  center  of  the  stage. 
A  playwright  of  the  present  day  may  draw  a 
servant  who  behaves  like  a  servant ;  but  in  "  the 
good  old  days  "  of  the  stock-company,  a  popular 


THE  PLAYS  OF  YESTERYEAR     207 

actor  who  was  sent  on  as  a  servant  expected,  at 
the  very  least,  an  opportunity  to  sing  a  song 
or  to  score  with  the  audience  by  making  impudent 
remarks  to  his  employer.  Every  play  had  to  con- 
tain a  villain  with  a  gruff  voice,  a  handsome  and 
athletic  hero,  a  comic  old  man,  a  simpering  and 
saccharine  young  lady  (preferably  an  orphan), 
a  self-sacrificing  secondary  hero,  a  female  servant 
who  was  loudly  boisterous,  and  (if  possible)  a 
regiment  of  soldiers.  Every  member  of  the  stock- 
company  had  to  be  furnished  with  his  special 
"  line  of  business  " ;  and  life  was  beaten  about 
until  it  surrendered  to  a  formula.  How  grateful 
we  should  be  for  that  "  deterioration "  of  the 
drama  in  recent  years  that  is  made  by  Mr.  Win- 
ter a  theme  for  sentimental  sighing! 


XX 

A  NEW  DEFENSE  OF  MELODRAMA 


It  is  the  fate  of  many  amiable  words  to  be  de- 
based by  vulgar  usage  until  they  acquire  a  deroga- 
tory connotation.  Thus  has  the  sweet  word 
homely  been  deflowered;  so  that  nowadays  to  as- 
sure a  woman  that  she  is  homely  has  ceased  to 
seem  a  gentle  compliment.  The  adjective  ama- 
teur, which  in  its  original  sense  exactly  defines 
the  quality  of  such  delicate  and  loving  art  as  that 
of  Mr.  Austin  Dobson  or  of  Mr.  Kenneth  Gra- 
hame,  has  come  to  connote  the  daubing  of  a 
bungler.  Anybody  who  labors  earnestly,  though 
only  in  a  humble  way,  to  fulfil  the  purpose  of 
criticism  —  which  was  defined  by  Matthew  Ar- 
nold as  "  a  disinterested  endeavor  to  learn  and 
propagate  the  best  that  is  known  and  thought  in 
the  world  "  —  must  endure  the  continual  discour- 
agement of  hearing  the  word  criticism  bandied 
about  on  careless  lips  as  if  it  signified  an  interested 
endeavor  to  discredit  the  nobility  of  art.  If  one 
may  muse  for  a  moment  in  the  mood  of  Elia  — 

208 


A  NEW  DEFENSE  OF  MELODRAMA    209 

would  it  not  be  a  gracious  act  to  erect  a  monu- 
ment to  fallen  words,  like  censure,  common, 
cynic,  nice,  mistress,  gentleman,  to  remind  the 
present  age  of  what  they  used  to  mean  before 
they  fell  on  evil  days  and  evil  tongues?  .  .  . 

In  the  vocabulary  of  theatre-goers,  no  word  has 
suffered  more  from  this  iniquitous  degeneration 
than  the  adjective  melodramatic.  Careless  writ- 
ers are  now  accustomed  to  call  a  play  melo- 
dramatic when  they  wish  to  indicate  that  it  is 
bad;  whereas  they  might  with  equal  logic  try  to 
damn  a  play  by  calling  it  tragic,  or  comic,  or 
poetic.  There  are  good  tragedies  and  bad  trag- 
edies, good  melodramas  and  bad  melodramas ;  and 
it  is  no  more  sound  to  assume  that  all  melodramas 
are  bad  than  to  assume  that  all  tragedies  are 
good.  But  the  very  word  melodrama  has  so  fallen 
into  disrepute  that  nowadays  when  a  man  puts 
forth  a  melodrama  he  usually  pretends  that  it  is 
something  else  and  writes  in  a  few  extraneous 
passages  to  justify  his  press-agent  in  advertising 
it  as  a  social  study  or  a  comedy. 

Consequently,  if  we  are  to  converse  with  any 
seriousness  about  the  noble  art  of  melodrama,  we 
must  agree  at  the  outset  to  divest  the  word  of  all 
derogatory  connotation.  Most  people  consider 
it  pedantic  to  insist  on  definitions ;  and  the  minor- 
ity of  writers  who  refuse  to  use  such  an  adjective 
as  romantic  without  explaining  what  they  mean 


210         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

by  it  are  usually  labeled  academic  —  which  is  sup- 
posed to  be  synonymous  with  dull.  Yet  a  great 
deal  of  the  fret  and  bother  of  the  world  would  be 
averted  if  people  in  general  would  only  educate 
themselves  to  definition.  For  instance,  if  only 
the  socialists  would  agree  upon  a  definition  of 
socialism  and  formulate  it  in  a  single  paragraph, 
we  should  all  be  able  to  determine  at  a  glance 
whether  or  not  we  wanted  to  be  socialists ;  and  this 
procedure  would  save  reformers  the  expense  of 
printing  innumerable  pamphlets  and  spare  us  a 
great  deal  of  mouthing  and  sawing  the  air. 

By  melodrama  —  if  we  use  the  word  nicely  — 
is  signified  a  serious  play  in  which  the  incidents 
determine  and  control  the  characters.  There  are, 
to  be  sure,  a  few  other  abiding  features  of  melo- 
drama that  should  be  accounted  for  in  any  final 
definition  of  the  form,  and  these  we  shall  con- 
sider in  due  time ;  but  for  the  present  this  primary 
principle  will  serve  to  convince  us  that  melodrama 
not  only  has  an  excuse  for  being  but  is  in  reality 
one  of  the  noblest  types  of  art.  In  both  tragedy 
and  comedy  the  characters  control  the  plot;  in 
farce,  as  in  melodrama,  a  train  of  incidents  is 
foreordained  and  the  characters  are  subsequently 
woven  into  the  pattern  of  destiny  that  has  been 
predetermined  for  them ;  and  it  is  clearly  reason- 
able for  us  to  accept  that  convention  of  criticism 
which    regards    tragedy    and    comedy    as    more 


A  NEW  DEFENSE  OF  MELODRAMA    211 

heroic  than  their  sister  arts.  But  life  itself  is 
more  frequently  melodramatic  than  tragic  and 
much  more  often  farcical  than  comic;  in  fact,  the 
utter  dominance  of  character  over  coincidence  is 
so  rare  in  the  record  of  humanity  as  to  call  for 
chapter-headings  in  our  histories;  and  since  the 
purpose  of  the  drama  —  like  that  of  all  the  other 
arts  —  is  to  represent  the  truth  of  life,  the  the- 
atre must  always  rely  on  farce  and  melodrama  to 
complete  its  comment  on  humanity.  Much  of  our 
life  —  in  fact,  by  far  the  major  share  —  is  casual 
instead  of  causal.  As  Stevenson  remarked,  in  his 
Gossip  on  Romance,  "  The  pleasure  that  we  take 
in  life  is  of  two  sorts  —  the  active  and  the  passive. 
Now  we  are  conscious  of  a  great  command  over 
our  destiny ;  anon  we  are  lifted  up  by  circum- 
stance, as  by  a  breaking  wave,  and  dashed  we 
know  not  how  into  the  future."  It  is  not  granted 
to  many  of  us  to  realize  with  any  constancy  that 
boast  of  Henley's  and  to  regard  ourselves  as 
masters  of  our  fate  or  captains  of  our  soul;  for 
nearly  all  the  good  or  ill  that  happens  to  us  is 
drifted  to  us,  uncommanded,  undeserved,  upon  the 
tides  of  chance.  It  is  this  immutable  truth  —  the 
persistency  of  chance  in  the  serious  concerns  of 
life  and  the  inevitable  influence  of  accident  on 
character — that  melodrama  aims  to  represent: 
and  to  damn  melodrama  as  an  inconsiderable  type 
of  art  is  to  deny  the  divinity  of  Fortune,  whom 


212         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

the  wisest  of  all  men,  in  the  seventh  canto  of  his 
Helli  exalted  "  with  the  other  Deities." 

n 

It  is  because  melodrama  casts  its  emphasis  on 
incident  instead  of  character  that  it  has  been  in 
every  age  the  most  popular  of  all  the  types  of 
drama.  Each  of  us  is  avid  of  adventure;  and  to 
find  ten  dollars  in  the  street  strikes  us  as  more 
interesting  than  to  earn  ten  dollars  by  accomplish- 
ing our  share  in  the  established  division  of  labor. 
Similarly  —  though  in  this  we  are  not  logical  — 
it  strikes  us  as  more  interesting  to  be  gagged  and 
bound,  and  rescued  by  the  provident  police,  than 
to  quarrel  with  our  wife  or  husband  over  the  dura- 
tion of  the  boiling  of  an  eg^  and  to  purchase 
forgiveness  by  the  gift  of  an  ostrich  feather  or  a 
box  of  trust-made  but  untrustworthy  cigars. 
Though  in  our  waking  senses  we  may  contemn 
that  Deity  whose  name  is  Fortune,  we  all  worship 
her  in  dreams ;  and  in  the  theatre  we  bless  the 
happy  chance  that  agreeably  rewards  the  inno- 
cent and  consigns  the  villainous  to  jail. 

In  our  own  lives,  we  remember  what  has  happened 
to  us,  by  some  lucky  or  unlucky  accident,  more 
vividly  than  we  remember  what  we  were:  our  past 
selves  arc  clouded  with  oblivion,  but  our  past  ad- 
ventures float  before  the  eyes  of  memory  as 
stories  instant  and  alive.     So,  in  our  experience 


A  NEW  DEFENSE  OF  MELODRAMA    213 

of  theatre-going,  we  forget  characters  —  like 
Hedda  Gabler  —  but  we  remember  incidents  — 
like  that  moment  in  The  Two  Orphans  when  the 
lost  Louise  is  heard  singing  in  the  street  and 
the  incarcerated  Henriette  is  stopped  at  the  door 
by  the  entering  guards  while  she  hears  her  sister 
being  dragged  unwillingly  away  to  a  continuance 
of  beggary.  Adventure  moves  us  more  than  char- 
acter ;  because  adventure  is  always  with  us  —  it 
is  often  an  adventure  to  look  over  the  edge  of  our 
morning  paper  at  the  person  seated  opposite  in 
the  subway  —  but  character  is  an  element  of  des- 
tiny of  which  we  grow  aware  only  in  the  small 
minority  of  incidents  which  are  commanded  and 
controlled. 

And  there  is  another  point  which  explains  the 
popularity  of  melodrama;  and  that  is  that,  since 
the  characters  are  not  rigidly  defined,  we  experi- 
ence no  difficulty  in  putting  ourselves  in  the  posi- 
tions of  the  characters  and  imagining  that  what 
is  happening  upon  the  stage  is  happening  to  us. 
We  observe  the  clearly  drawn  characters  of 
tragedy  with  a  conscious  aloofness  that  is,  to 
some  degree,  discomforting.  Hedda  Gabler  in- 
terests us  merely  as  a  specimen ;  and  what  hap- 
pens to  her  does  not  in  any  real  sense  happen  to 
us.  The  fact  of  what  she  is  convinces  us  that  she 
must  ultimately  kill  herself;  but  if  we  were  flung 
into  the  same  position,  we  should  crawl  out  by 


214.         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

some  easier  wsLy.  We  realize  that  Othello  is 
doomed  to  kill  his  wife,  but  we  understand  also 
that  the  tragical  oblation  is  absurd:  if  we  were 
in  the  same  position,  we  should  perceive  that  Des- 
demona  had  been  maligned  bj  the  perversity  of 
evidence.  We  should  not  behave  like  Hedda  or 
Othello,  because  we  are  not  at  all  like  either  of 
them.  Each  of  them  is  clearly  characterized  and 
convinces  us  of  an  essential  disparity  with  our- 
selves. But  in  melodrama  the  heroine  and  hero 
are  not  clearly  characterized ;  they  are  represented 
not  as  particular  people,  but  merely  as  anybody 
involved  in  the  situation  of  the  moment;  and  we 
naturally  take  the  stage,  adopt  their  destiny  as 
our  own,  and  experience  in  our  particular  imagi- 
nation all  that  is  happening  to  them.  Thus,  in 
Mr.  Gillette's  admirable  melodrama  entitled  Held 
by  the  Enemy,  when  the  captured  Confederate 
lieutenant  confesses  to  the  Union  court-martial 
that  he  is  a  spy,  and  glories  in  his  sinister  voca- 
tion, inviting  with  a  smile  the  death  that  will  com- 
plete his  sense  of  duty  done,  it  is  not  so  much  to 
him  that  the  incident  occurs  as  to  you  or  me, 
seated  in  the  audience;  for  at  that  moment,  in 
imagination,  we  take  the  stage  and  speak  the 
words  of  martyrdom  ourselves.  For  it  is  the 
special  grace  of  melodrama  to  represent  not  what 
a  particular  person  will  do  in  a  given  situation, 
but  what  anybody  would  do  under  such  a  stress  of 


A  NEW  DEFENSE  OF  MELODRAMA    215 

circumstance;  and  since  anybody  is  easily  identi- 
fiable with  ourself,  we  imagine  the  situation  as 
happening  to  us  and  adopt  it  into  our  particular 
experience. 

This  is,  of  course,  the  philosophic  point  whicli 
explains  the  popularity  of  that  special  species  of 
melodrama  which,  in  New  York,  flourishes  on 
Third  Avenue  and  Eighth  Avenue.  The  devotees 
of  cheap  melodrama  are  workaday  people  to 
whom,  in  the  orderly  procession  of  the  days,  noth- 
ing noteworthy  ever  happens ;  and  in  the  theatre 
they  demand  the  sort  of  play  in  which  surprising 
and  startling  adventures  will  happen  not  only  to 
the  people  on  the  stage  but  to  themselves.  There- 
fore the  characters  on  the  stage  must  not  be  so 
sharply  drawn  as  to  be  set  apart  from  any  per- 
son in  the  audience;  and  adventure  must  be  rep- 
resented for  its  own  sake,  regardless  of  the  per- 
sonality of  the  people  it  involves.  As  Sir 
Thomas  Browne  loved  to  lose  himself  in  a  mys- 
tery, so  the  auditors  of  our  ten,  twenty,  and 
thirty-cent  theatres  love  to  lose  themselves  in  an 
irresponsible  train  of  circumstances  which  con- 
ceivably might  happen  to  themselves.  In  a  word, 
they  go  to  the  theatre  to  en j  oy  themselves  — 
which  is  to  say  their  own  imagined  hesitancies  and 
imperilments  —  and  decidedly  not  to  enjoy  some  -f 
totally  different  and  extraneous  creature  like 
Hedda  Gabler  or  Othello.     The  popularity,  as  a 


216         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

character,  of  Bertha  (the  sewing-machine  girl)  or 
Nellie  (the  beautiful  cloak-model)  is  explicable 
by  the  fact  that  neither  of  them  is,  in  any  precise 
sense,  a  character  at  all ;  and  that  therefore  any 
woman  in  the  audience  can,  without  the  slightest 
straining  of  imagination,  set  herself  in  the  hero- 
ine's place  and  experience  vicariously  the  adven- 
tures that  befall  her. 

Let  us  recapitulate  a  moment,  for  the  sake  of 
clearness.  We  have  already  observed  that  melo- 
drama epitomizes  the  major  portion  of  habitual 
experience,  because  it  emphasizes  incident  above 
character  as  a  factor  in  human  destiny;  and  also, 
since  it  leaves  the  hero  and  the  heroine  unchar- 
acterized,  that  it  permits,  more  easily  than  trag- 
edy, that  the  spectator  should  in  imagination  take 
the  stage  and  assume  as  his  own  the  adventures  of 
the  plot.  But  there  is  another  very  important 
point  which  must  be  accounted  for  in  any  fineil 
definition  of  the  art  of  melodrama. 

This  point  —  perhaps  the  most  important  that 
we  have  to  consider  —  is  that  the  abiding  mood 
of  melodrama  is  an  absolute  and  dauntless  opti- 
mism. The  world  of  melodrama  is  a  just  and 
lucky  world  where  all  things  fall  out  fitly.  We 
are  granted  from  the  outset  an  assurance  that 
in  the  end  the  guilty  will  be  punished  and  the 
virtuous  attain  their  due  reward.  No  innocent 
Ophelia  or  Cordelia  will  be  dragged  down  in  the 


A  NEW  DEFENSE  OF  MELODRAMA    217 

maelstrom  of  catastrophe.  Our  cherished  char- 
acters are  flung  repeatedly  into  imminent  danger 
of  death,  and  we  feel  their  pangs  and  perils  as 
our  own ;  but  we  know  all  along  —  and  bless  our- 
selves with  knowing  —  that  no  one  will  be  killed 
except  the  villain.  This  is  the  great  charm  of 
melodrama  —  that  it  deals  with  charmed  lives. 
Sherlock  Holmes  will  surely  escape  from  the  gas- 
chamber  —  though  hozc,  indeed,  we  cannot  pos- 
sibly foresee.  In  watching  melodrama  of  a  cruder 
sort,  we  experience  this  same  sense  of  a  comfort- 
able providence.  You  may  lock  the  heroine  in  a 
lion's  cage,  throw  her  off  of  Brooklyn  Bridge,  tie 
her  to  the  subway  tracks,  and  dangle  her  by  a 
rope  from  the  windy  summit  of  the  Singer  tower ; 
but  we  know  all  along  that  the  kindly  gods  who 
look  after  the  destiny  of  heroines  will  rescue  her 
from  harm  and  consign  her  as  good  as  new  to  the 
strong  arms  of  the  hero.  And  there  is  another 
matter  which,  in  the  interests  of  criticism,  it  is 
surely  not  indelicate  to  mention ;  and  that  is  that 
we  derive  a  world  of  solid  comfort  from  our  cer- 
tainty that  the  virtue  of  the  heroine  is  inviolable. 
At  every  moment  she  is  chaperoned  by  destiny. 
What  Milton  expressed  supremely  in  his  portrayal 
of  the  Lady  in  Comus,  our  melodramatists  repeat 
with  cruder  emphasis;  namely,  that  virginity  is 
its  own  defense  and  virtue  shields  itself  with 
spiritual  armor.    In  The  Deep  Purple,  which  is  one 


218         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

of  the  best  of  recent  melodramas,  the  silly  girl 
of  a  heroine  who  has  run  away  from  home  with 
a  deep-dyed  villain  with  whom  she  thinks  herself 
in  love,  is  providentially  preserved  in  purity  till 
she  may  meet  and  marry  the  most  lovable  of 
heroes.  Here  is  a  vision  of  the  world  as  we  would 
have  it.  If  ever  we  were  erected  to  the  exalted 
state  of  Zeus-upon-Olympus,  it  is  thus  that  we 
should  stage-direct  the  tremendous  drama  of  hu- 
manity. It  is  true,  indeed,  that  life  as  it  exists 
is  not  so  ordered :  —  one  of  our  best  architects 
and  most  serviceable  citizens  is  absurdly  slain  in 
a  taxi-cab  collision ;  Kentucky  sends  to  Congress 
a  man  who  was  once  convicted  of  complicity  in 
an  ignominious  murder;  corruption  buys  a  seat 
in  the  Senate ;  a  valuable  novelist  is  shot  down 
by  a  madman :  —  we  look  about  us  and  it  seems 
that  there  is  neither  right  nor  reason  in  the  in- 
appealable  decrees  of  destiny.  But  meanwhile 
the  noble  art  of  melodrama  stands  up  scornful  be- 
fore many  spears  and  confronts  the  iniquity  of 
fate  with  a  laugh  "  broad  as  a  thousand  beeves 
at  pasture." 

No  art  has  ever  succeeded  because  of  its  de- 
fects ;  and  the  fact  that  melodrama  has  been  and 
is  perennially  popular  can  be  explained  only  by 
what  is  great  and  noble  in  it.  Melodrama  answers 
one  of  the  most  profound  of  human  needs :  —  it 
ministers  to  that  motive  which  philosophers  terra 


A  NEW  DEFENSE  OF  MELODRAMA    219 

the  will  to  believe.  It  looks  at  life  —  as  Paul  en- 
joined humanity  to  look  at  it  —  with  faith  and 
hope.  So,  when  the  toilers  in  our  sweat-shops 
attend  the  ten,  twenty,  and  thirty-cent  theatres, 
they  escape  into  a  region  where  faith  is  not  an 
idle  jest  and  hope  is  not  an  irony;  and  thereafter, 
when  they  reassume  the  heavy  and  the  weary 
weight  of  all  their  unintelligible  world,  they  may 
yet  smile  backward  in  remembrance  of  that  mo- 
mentary dream-world  in  which  destiny  was  just 
and  kind  and  good.  A  happy  face  in  the  street  is 
a  gift  to  the  community ;  and  this  art  that  always 
wears  a  happy  face  is  a  gift  to  humanity  at  large. 

m 

We  may  now  redefine  melodrama  as  a  serious 
play  in  which  the  incidents  determine  and  control 
the  characters  and  in  which  the  auditors  are  as- 
sured from  the  outset  that  all  will  come  out  as 
they  wish  it  in  the  end.  Thus  defined,  melodrama 
must  be  admitted  to  include  many  of  the  most 
important  plays  in  the  history  of  the  drama.  It 
must  not  be  supposed  that  the  art  began  with 
Victorien  Sardou ;  it  is  at  least  as  old  as  Eurip- 
ides, and  was  highly  honored  in  the  Spain  of 
Calderon  and  Lope  and  the  England  of  the  spa- 
cious times  of  great  Elizabeth.  Many  of  the 
stirring  plays  which  used  to  pass  for  tragedies 


220         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

in  our  histories  of  the  drama  are  now  seen  to  be 
merely  melodramas.  Tragedy  must  exhibit  an 
inevitable  doom;  and  the  inevitable  is  nearly  as 
rare  in  art  as  it  is  in  life.  Life  itself  is  seldom 
tragic,  in  any  exact  and  technical  sense ;  and  there 
are  very  few  unquestionable  tragedies  in  the  his- 
tory of  art.  Victor  Hugo,  who  admitted  that  his 
three  prose  plays  were  melodramas,  thought  that 
his  plays  in  verse  were  tragedies ;  but  we  now  per- 
ceive that  Hernani  and  Ruy  Bias  and  all  the  rest 
of  them  are  melodramas  also  —  and  we  like  them 
none  the  less  because  of  the  change  of  label. 
Those  windy  suspirations  of  forced  breath  which 
in  mid-Victorian  days  were  esteemed  as  tragedies, 
and  are  still  looked  upon  with  loving  reminiscence 
by  the  backward-minded  Mr.  William  Winter, 
were  all  melodramas,  and  melodramas  of  a  rather 
crude  and  secondary  sort.  The  Virginius  of 
Sheridan  Knowles,  the  Richelieu  of  Bulwer- 
Lytton,  the  FooVs  Revenge  of  Tom  Taylor  (an 
adaptation  from  Hugo),  were  melodramas  pure 
and  simple,  though  they  wore  the  literary  trap- 
pings and  the  suits  of  tragedy.  It  is  always  dis- 
concerting to  find  one  art  masquerading  in  the 
dress  of  another;  a  melodrama  that  pretends  to 
be  a  tragedy  afflicts  us  ultimately  with  an  over- 
whelming sense  that  it  is  ashamed  of  itself;  and 
the  sense  of  shame  is  incompatible  with  the  sense 
of  easy  enjoyment.     Retrospective  criticism  must 


A  NEW  DEFENSE  OF  MELODRAMA    221 

therefore  finally  prefer  such  frank  and  gloating 
melodramas  as  the  Tour  de  Nesle  of  the  elder 
Dumas,  the  Fedora  of  Sardou,  the  Two  Orphans 
of  Dennery,  or  those  favorites  of  our  fathers, 
The  Ticket-of -Leave  Man  and  Jim  the  Penman. 
Jim  the  Penman  thrilled  the  younger  generation 
when  it  was  revived  a  few  years  ago ;  and  The 
Two  Orphans,  which  is  always  with  us,  is  —  if  not 
a  thing  of  beauty  —  at  least  a  joy  forever. 

Since  melodrama  casts  its  emphasis  on  action, 
rather  than  on  character,  it  calls,  far  more  than 
tragedy,  for  an  exhibition  of  the  uttermost  me- 
chanical equipment  of  the  stage.  We  turn  to 
the  tragedies  and  comedies  of  other  ages  to  see 
the  highest  development  of  the  drama  in  those 
times ;  but  if  we  wish  to  acquaint  ourselves  with 
the  highest  development  of  theatric  presentation 
in  any  age,  we  must  turn  our  attention  to  its 
melodramas.  When  Mr.  Belasco  produces  a  quiet 
comedy  like  The  Concert,  he  exhibits  less  em- 
phatically his  skill  in  stage-direction  than  when 
he  produces  a  melodrama  like  The  Girl  of  the 
Golden  West.  The  Great  Ruby  gave  more  no- 
ticeable evidence  of  the  ability  of  Augustin  Daly 
as  a  producer  than  did  The  School  for  Scandal 
or  The  Merchant  of  Venice.  The  mechanism  of 
melodrama  has  been  carried  to  the  highest  effi- 
ciency in  London,  on  the  stage  of  Drury  Lane. 
In  The  Whip,  which  ran  a  year  at  Old  Drury,  a 


222         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

railroad  train  was  wrecked  upon  the  stage  (in 
pursuance  of  the  villain's  plot  to  kill  the  hero's 
race-horse,  which  was  being  transported  in  a  box- 
car) ;  and  the  sight  of  the  derailed  and  overturn- 
ing engine  panting  and  puffing  bravely  after  the 
intolerable  crash  thrilled  through  the  thousand- 
fold assembled  audience  and  evoked  a  tremor  even 
from  the  sophisticated  critic.  In  The  Sins  of 
Society,  another  Drury  Lane  melodrama,  a  battle- 
ship went  down,  with  all  hands  rallied  round  the 
flag.  It  may  be  finer  dramatic  art  for  Mrs. 
Fiske  to  sit  still  and  think  hard  in  Rosmersholm; 
but  it  is  more  wonderful  theatric  art  to  sink  a 
ship  upon  the  stage;  and  on  purely  human 
grounds  there  are  many  reasons  for  regarding  a 
sinking  ship  as  a  more  pathetic  spectacle  than  a 
falling  woman. 

And  this  suggests  a  final  word  that  must  be  said 
in  favor  of  melodrama:  —  it  gives  the  actors  an 
opportunity  to  act.  In  every  scene  they  have  to 
do  things ;  they  cannot  —  like  Mrs.  Patrick 
Campbell  —  turn  away  from  the  audience  and 
think  with  their  backs.  Thinking  with  the  back 
may  be  the  most  mystical  and  esoteric  perform- 
ance that  is  possible  to  humankind:  at  least  we 
have,  in  support  of  this  belief,  the  high  authority 
of  M.  Auguste  Rodin  —  the  solo  surviving  Titan 
of  these  desultory  days  —  who  once  told  a  visitor 
of  his  that  the  secret  of  his  Penseur  is  that  he 


A  NEW  DEFENSE  OF  MELODRAMA    223 

thinks  with  his  back.  But  on  the  stage  it  is 
surely  more  thrilling  to  watch  the  blind  Louise 
grope  her  way  down  the  banister  of  a  declining 
stairway,  and  then  pass  inadvertently  within  six 
inches  of  the  prostrate  form  of  the  fainting  Hen- 
riette,  whom  she  has  sought  so  long  and  with  so 
many  heartaches,  and  is  not  destined  to  discover 
until  the  whirligig  of  the  melodrama  brings  in  its 
final  revenges.  Even  so  —  as  a  matter  of  mere 
acting  —  we  would  rather  watch  the  negro  serv- 
ant, in  the  last  act  of  Secret  Service,  remove  the 
bullets  from  the  stacked  guns  of  the  Union 
guards,  than  watch  the  facial  play  of  Hedda 
Gabler  as  she  sits  in  silence  debating  her  prob- 
lem of  impending  suicide.  For  in  this  the  theatre 
differs  from  life :  —  that,  on  the  stage,  action 
speaks  louder  than  character,  and  to  do  is  more 
important  than  to  be. 

Latterly  there  has  appeared  in  our  theatres  a 
new  type  of  the  sort  of  melodrama  that  is  ashamed 
of  itself — which,  while  not  pretending  to  be 
tragedy,  pretends  to  be  a  serious  study  of  con- 
temporary social  problems.  A  definitive  example 
of  this  type  is  the  Judith  Zaraine  of  Mr.  C.  M. 
S.  McClellan,  which  masqueraded  as  a  social  study 
and  very  promptly  failed.  In  this  play,  Mr.  Mc- 
Clellan spoiled  a  good  melodramatic  story  by 
submerging  it  beneath  oceans  of  tall  talk  about 
capital  and  labor.     Nowadays  it  is  considered  an 


224         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

evidence  of  earnestness  to  talk  about  capital  and 
labor,  just  as  in  the  middle  ages  it  was  considered 
an  evidence  of  earnestness  to  talk  about  how  man}' 
angels  could  dance  on  the  head  of  a  pin ;  fashions 
change  in  tall  talk,  while  the  singing  world  rolls 
on ;  but  when  a  man  finds  a  melodrama  made  to 
his  hand,  why,  in  the  name  of  art,  should  he  ruin 
it  by  trying  to  turn  it  into  something  else?  The 
merit  of  The  Deep  Purple,  on  the  other  hand,  in- 
heres in  the  frankness  with  which  the  authors 
avow  and  flourish  the  fact  that  they  are  writing 
melodrama.  The  new  melodrama  will  never  rival 
the  glory  of  the  old  until  it  sloughs  off  all  so- 
phistication and  disguise,  and  comes  forward 
frankly  as  a  play  of  plot  supervised  by  a  kindly 
and  ingratiating  providence.  Mascarille  be- 
comes ignoble  only  when  he  masquerades  as  a 
nobleman ;  and  a  lesser  art  retains  its  dignity  only 
so  long  as  it  refrains  from  emulation  of  a  greater. 
Judith  Zaraine  is  dead,  and  so  is  The  Fool  Hath 
Said  —  which  tried  to  be  a  tragedy.  Meanwhile, 
Mr.  Gillette  is  still  winning  golden  encomiums 
with  Secret  Service;  and  those  who  remember  are 
still  eager  for  another  slashing  voyage  through 
the  tossed  and  foaming  seas  of  Dennery. 


XXI 

THE  ART  OF  THE  MOVING-PICTURE 
PLAY 

The  inventions  of  science  serve  frequently  to 
broaden  the  domains  of  art  by  offering  the  artist 
new  media  of  expression..  The  development  of 
skeleton  steel  construction  has  given  our  archi- 
tects an  opportunity  to  imagine  that  new  type  of 
beauty  in  the  art  of  building  which  has  obtained 
consummate  embodiment  in  the  Metropolitan 
Tower.  Photography,  which  began  merely  as  a 
mechanical  process,  has  developed  into  an  art 
more  subtle  for  handling  elusive  effects  of  light 
and  shadow  than  even  the  major  art  of  painting. 
The  introduction  of  electrical  illumination  has 
revolutionized  the  art  of  stage-direction  in  our 
theatres.  As  new  avenues  of  opportunity  are 
opened  to  the  artist  by  the  march  of  science,  the 
processes  of  the  traditional  arts  are  required  to 
readjust  themselves  to  meet  the  new  conditions. 
The  scientific  invention  of  the  kinematograph  sug- 
gested the  artistic  invention  of  the  moving- 
picture  play  —  a  novel  type  of  narrative,  wherein 
a  fictitious  story  is  represented  in  pantomime  by 
225 


226         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

actors  and  reproduced  by  the  kinetoscope;  and 
the  new  art  sprang  at  once  into  competition  with 
certain  of  the  previously  established  types  of 
drama. 

The  domain  of  criticism  is  co-extensive  with  the 
domain  of  art,  and  should  naturally  be  broadened 
to  include  those  new  provinces  which  the  inven- 
tions of  science  and  the  consequent  inventions  of 
art  have  recently  discovered  and  annexed.  It  will 
not  do  for  the  critic  to  ignore  a  new  art  because 
it  is  new  or  because  its  basis  is  mechanical.  All 
art  arises  from  the  application  of  a  mechanism; 
and  the  hoariest  of  the  traditional  arts  was  new 
at  some  time  in  the  history  of  mankind.  The 
critic  of  architecture  must  accept  the  skyscraper ; 
the  critic  of  painting  must  consider  the  new  art 
of  photography ;  and  it  is  surely  not  logical  that 
the  moving-picture  play  should  be  ignored  by  our 
critics  of  the  novel  and  the  drama.  A  new  type 
of  narrative  that  has  achieved  such  immediate  and 
such  widespread  popularity  as  the  moving-picture 
play  must  certainly  be  worthy  of  serious  criticism. 
If  we  should  learn  nothing  else  from  a  study  of 
its  materials  and  methods,  we  should  at  least  suc- 
ceed in  clarifying  our  ideas  concerning  those  pre- 
existent  types  of  narrative  from  which  it  has  de- 
rived its  processes. 

Even  a  casual  study  of  the  moving-picture 
play  will  convince  us  of  the  soundness  of  that 


THE  MOVING-PICTURE  PLAY      227 

principle  of  contemporary  criticism  that  nearly 
every  good  play  has  for  its  basis  a  good  panto- 
mime, and  that  dialogue  —  the  purely  literary  ele- 
ment —  while  not  the  least  important,  is  at  any 
rate  the  least  indispensable,  of  the  many  elements 
which  are  compounded  in  that  complex  work  of 
art,  the  acted  drama.  The  kinematograph  be- 
reaves the  drama  of  the  spoken  word ;  and  it  must 
be  surprising  to  the  literary  theorists  to  learn  how 
much  is  left  —  how  vividly  the  essential  elements 
of  action,  character,  and  setting  may  convey 
themselves  by  visual  means  alone.  Pantomime  has 
been  recognized  for  many  centuries  as  a  legiti- 
mate type  of  drama;  but  it  is  safe  to  say  that  the 
variety  and  the  extent  of  its  adaptability  as  a 
means  of  story-telling  were  never  fully  under- 
stood until  the  invention  of  the  kinematograph 
demanded  of  it  an  unprecedented  exercise.  The 
familiar  French  one-act  pantomime  entitled  La 
Main  has  been  reproduced  by  the  flittering  film, 
and  is  fully  as  effective  on  the  screen  as  on  the 
stage.  Such  a  classic  of  the  art  of  pantomime 
as  that  wordless  drama  in  three  acts,  VEnfant 
Prodigue,  devised  by  Michel  Carre,  which  was  re- 
cently revived  at  the  Carnegie  Lyceum  by  Mme. 
Pilar-Morin,  could  be  reproduced  by  the  kineto- 
scope  without  any  loss  of  dramatic  effect  and 
would  furnish  an  interesting  evening's  entertain- 
ment.   But  even  the  spoken  drama  might,  in  many 


228         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

of  its  classic  manifestations,  be  kinematographed 
without  irremediable  loss.  Several  of  the  melo- 
dramas of  Sardou  have  already  been  successfully 
submitted  to  the  process ;  and  it  is  not  impossible 
to  imagine  a  wordless  reproduction  of  even  more 
eminent  types  of  drama.  Such  a  farce,  for  ex- 
ample, as  Le  Medecin  Malgre  Lui  of  Moliere 
could  easily  tell  itself  through  the  medium  of  the 
moving  picture  and  would  still  awaken  laughter. 
Moliere's  humor  always  expresses  itself  through 
the  situation  or  the  character  and  never  through 
the  mere  language  of  the  dialogue ;  in  all  his  plays 
there  is  not  a  single  witty  line;  and  humor  which 
is  thus  mainly  visual,  instead  of  auditory,  in  its 
appeal  may  be  conveyed  in  pantomime.  The 
screen  scene  of  The  School  for  Scandal  —  to 
choose  an  instance  from  high  comedy  —  would  re- 
main clearly  intelligible  in  all  its  necessary  impli- 
cations if  it  were  acted  without  words ;  and  if  we 
desire  an  example  from  poetic  tragedy,  we  need 
only  consider  that  the  final  scene  of  Hamlet 
would  still  be  thrillingly  appealing  if  it  were  pro- 
jected on  the  silent  but  animated  screen.  The 
only  type  of  drama  which  is  absolutely  unavail- 
able for  the  kinetoscopc  is  that  in  which  the  ele- 
ment of  action  is  entirely  subordinated  to  the  ele- 
ment of  character  and  in  which  incidents  are 
imagined  off  the  stage  for  the  sake  of  their  sub- 
sequent psychologic  effect  on  the  people  present 


THE  MOVING-PICTURE  PLAY      229 

to  the  eye  —  the  type  that  is  represented  by  the 
tragedies  of  Corncille  and  Racine  and  some  of  the 
social  dramas  of  Ibsen  and  his  imitators.  But 
since  the  preponderant  proportion  of  the  existing 
drama  conveys  its  message  more  by  visual  than  by 
auditory  means,  it  seems  strange  that  more  of  our 
standard  plays  have  not  been  reproduced  in  mov- 
ing pictures.  For  some  time  we  have  utilized  the 
phonograph  to  record  the  voices  of  our  greatest 
opera  singers.  Why  should  we  not  also  utilize 
the  kinematograph  to  record  the  visual  aspects  of 
the  acting  of  our  greatest  histrionic  artists .'' 
This  available  invention  should  surely  be  applied 
to  make  a  permanent  record  of  such  bits  of  act- 
ing, for  example,  as  Sir  Johnston  Forbes-Rob- 
ertson's death  scene  in  Hamlet.  That  moment 
when  his  half-uplifted  hands  wave  and  flutter  in 
the  air,  and  his  face  is  for  the  last  time  suffused 
with  the  ineffable  smile  that  dawned  over  it  in  the 
first  act  at  the  phrase,  "  Methinks  I  see  my 
father,"  and  then  the  head  sinks  forward  in  sign 
that  for  all  eternity  the  rest  is  silence  —  surely 
this,  and  many  moments  like  it,  should  be  recorded, 
like  Caruso's  voice,  before  the  living  artist  is 
stolen  from  the  world. 

But,  on  the  other  hand,  there  is  a  sound  critical 
reason  why  the  moving-picture  play  should  not 
confine  itself  to  the  reproduction  of  the  ordinary 
spoken  drama.     In  several  important  respects  the 


230         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

moving  picture  is  a  more  serviceable  medium  for 
story-telling  than  the  regular  drama;  and  it  can 
achieve  its  most  interesting  effects  by  flinging 
emphasis  upon  such  expedients  of  narrative  as  lie 
beyond  the  reach  of  the  actual  theatre.  The  main 
advantage  of  the  moving-picture  play  over  the 
traditional  types  of  drama  is  that  the  author  is 
granted  an  immeasurably  greater  freedom  in  han- 
dling the  categories  of  place  and  time.  The 
modern  play  must  confine  itself  to  not  more  than 
three  or  four  definite  localizations ;  but  a  story 
told  by  moving  pictures  may  change  its  place  as 
frequently  as  the  author  may  desire.  He  may 
arrange  his  tale  in  fifty  scenes  instead  of  four; 
and  this  is,  technically,  an  immeasurable  advan- 
tage. Instead  of  constraining  his  characters  to 
meet  at  a  certain  place  at  a  certain  moment,  he 
may  visit  them  at  different  moments  in  the  various 
places  where  they  choose  to  be.  In  this  freedom  the 
moving-picture  play  resembles  those  earlier  types 
of  drama  which  flourished  before  the  stage  re- 
stricted its  range  of  narrative  by  adopting  a  defi- 
nite scenic  setting.  Students  of  the  history  of 
the  theatre  will  discern  a  close  analogy  between 
the  moving-picture  play  and  that  type  of  chron- 
icle history  which  was  developed  in  the  early  Eliza- 
bethan period  and  was  utilized  repeatedly  by 
Shakespeare.  The  battle  episodes  of  Shake- 
speare's histories,  vivid  with  alarums  and  excur- 


THE  MOVING-PICTURE  PLAY      231 

sions,  wherein  the  scene  shifts  momentarily  from 
one  part  of  the  field  of  conflict  to  another,  and 
the  characters  make  a  rapid  transit  before  the 
eye,  launching  hasty,  incoherent  lines  in  passing, 
could  be  suggested  more  emphatically  by  the 
kinematograph  than  on  the  modern  scenery-en- 
cumbered stage. 

Furthermore,  the  moving  picture  possesses  a 
notable  advantage  over  the  contemporary  regu- 
lar drama  in  its  ability  to  alter,  in  the  fraction 
of  a  second,  the  point  of  view  from  which  the 
story  shall  be  looked  upon.  As  soon  as  a  char- 
acter has  passed  through  a  certain  door,  the  scene 
may  be  shifted  from  the  room  that  he  has  left  to 
the  room  that  he  has  entered ;  and  the  eye  may 
follow  him  all  through  a  house  from  cellar  to 
attic  without  any  loss  of  time.  The  new  art  of  the 
moving-picture  play  is  the  only  one  of  all  the 
many  arts  of  narrative  which  makes  it  possible 
for  the  observer  to  follow  with  the  actual  eye  the 
passage  of  a  character  through  a  mile  or  more  of 
space.  In  this  new  form  of  artistic  presentation, 
a  person  may  walk,  run,  ride,  drive,  sail,  swim, 
or  fly  for  any  distance,  and  yet  be  accompanied 
through  his  entire  transit  by  the  actual  eye  of  the 
observer.  This  fact  offers  to  the  artist  who  de- 
vises a  scenario  for  the  kinematograph  many  pos- 
sibilities  of   narrative   which   lie   far   beyond   the 


STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

range  of  the  writer  for  the  restricted  stage  of  the 
ordinary  drama. 

In  this  freedom  in  handling  place  and  time  and 
in  shifting  the  point  of  view,  the  moving-picture 
play  resembles  the  novel  much  more  nearly  than  it 
resembles  the  regular  drama.  The  solitary  horse- 
man, dear  to  Scott  and  Cooper,  could  not  be 
shown  upon  the  stage;  but  he  might  easily  be 
represented  on  the  screen.  If  we  draw  on  our 
imagination,  we  may  readily  adduce  a  more  em- 
phatic illustration  of  this  point.  Treasure  Island, 
for  example,  could  not  possibly  be  dramatized  for 
presentation  in  the  regular  theatre,  because  the 
interest  of  the  action  is  dependent  on  its  rapid 
change  of  place  from  hour  to  hour ;  but  the  entire 
story,  from  the  outset  to  the  end,  could  be  told 
in  moving  pictures ;  and  many  of  the  scenes,  since 
their  appeal  to  the  imagination  is  mainly  visual, 
would  be  even  more  effective  on  the  screen  than 
on  the  printed  page. 

In  handling  the  clement  of  action,  the  moving- 
picture  play  is  more  successful  than  the  novel, 
since  its  appeal  is  made  directly  to  the  eye  instead 
of  to  the  imagination,  and  it  is  scarcely  less  suc- 
cessful than  the  drama.  In  handling  the  clement 
of  setting,  it  is  overwhelmingly  superior,  not 
only  to  the  novel  but  to  the  drama  as  well.  In 
dealing  with  interiors,  the  moving-picture  play 
remains  on  a  par  with  the  regular  drama;  but  in 


THE  MOVING-PICTURE  PLAY      233 

dealing  with  scenes  set  out  of  doors,  it  passes  far 
beyond  the  reach  of  the  roofed  and  stationary 
stage.  In  the  modern  theatre  the  Forest  of  Ar- 
den  is  nothing  but  a  huddled  conglomeration  of 
canvas  trees ;  but  in  the  moving-picture  play, 
scenes  like  those  between  Shakespeare's  idyllic 
lovers  may  be  performed  in  an  actual  forest,  drift- 
ing from  place  to  place  among  trees  that  sift  the 
sunlight  and  flutter  their  leafy  branches  in  the 
breeze.  The  kinematograph  is  especially  success- 
ful in  rendering  effects  of  moving  air  and  water. 
On  the  stage,  the  sea  can  be  suggested  only  by  a 
crude  and  bungling  mechanism ;  but  in  the  mov- 
ing-picture play  a  scene  may  pass  upon  an  actual 
sandy  beach,  with  league-long  round-backed 
breakers  creaming  on  the  shore.  Boats  always 
look  silly  on  the  stage ;  but  the  kinematograph 
may  fluently  represent  the  paddling  of  a  canoe 
past  bend  after  bend  of  a  rippling  river.  Ani- 
mals, also,  which  can  never  be  trusted  to  behave 
naturally  in  the  theatre,  may  be  used  as  impor- 
tant agents  in  the  plot  when  the  scene  is  con- 
ducted actually  out  of  doors.  To  the  mind  of 
most  contemporary  artists  the  element  of  setting 
is  not  the  least  significant  of  the  three  necessary 
elements  of  narrative ;  and  it  is  therefore  an  ex- 
ceedingly important  point  that  criticism  is  forced 
to  concede  that  the  local  environment  of  a  story 
may  be  exhibited  more  directly  and  more  vividly 


234         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

in  the  moving-picture  play  than  in  any  of  the 
older  types  of  narrative.  It  is  only  in  handling 
the  element  of  character  that  the  new  art  is  at  a 
disadvantage  in  competing  with  the  novel  and 
the  drama.  The  many  expedients  that  the  dram- 
atist and  the  novelist  may  use  for  delineating 
character  are  reduced,  in  the  moving-picture  play, 
to  one.  What  people  are  may  be  suggested  only 
by  what  they  do :  by  their  deeds,  and  only  by  their 
deeds,  we  know  them.  In  drawing  character,  the 
moving-picture  play  suffers  a  strict  confinement 
of  range  in  consequence  of  its  inability  to  use  the 
spoken  word.  Only  a  small  minority  of  those  in- 
numerable characteristics  which  are  compounded 
into  any  individual  human  temperament  express 
themselves  naturally  in  action  which  is  obvious 
to  the  eye.  Here  then  —  in  handling  the  element 
of  character  —  lies  the  weakness  of  the  moving- 
picture  play  considered  technically  as  a  type  of 
narrative  —  just  as,  in  handling  that  other  ele- 
ment of  setting,  lies  its  strength. 

This  analysis  makes  it  possible  for  us  to  de- 
fine the  type  of  story  which  may  be  most  com- 
petently represented  by  the  kinematograph. 
Obviously  the  most  desirable  narrative  material 
for  a  moving-picture  play  is  material  in  which  the 
elements  of  action  and  setting  are  paramount 
and  the  element  of  character  subsidiary  —  in 
other   words,    a    story    in    which    incident    treads 


THE  MOVING-PICTURE  PLAY      235 

upon  the  heels  of  incident  and  the  action  rushes 
headlong  through  a  hurried  succession  of  objec- 
tive events,  set  preferably  out  of  doors.  It  will 
be  noticed  at  once  that,  whereas  this  definition 
utterly  fails  to  fit  the  modern  regular  drama,  it 
almost  exactly  fits  the  traditional  romantic  novel 
of  adventure.  If  we  revert  to  an  illustration  that 
has  already  been  adduced,  we  shall  observe  that 
this  definition  of  what  is  necessary  in  a  moving- 
picture  play  points  directly  to  that  traditional 
type  of  narrative  that  Stevenson  revivified  in 
Treasure  Island. 

In  fact,  a  re-reading  of  Stevenson's  Gossip  on 
Romance  will  give  us  a  very  vivid  sense  of  the 
sources  of  the  interest  and  charm  of  which  the 
moving-picture  play  is  particularly  capable. 
What  Stevenson  says  in  praise  of  the  romantic 
novel  of  adventure  may  be  applied  with  equal  jus- 
tice to  that  new  art  which  did  not  spring  into 
existence  till  after  he  was  dead,  "  The  story," 
he  says,  "  should  repeat  itself  in  a  thousand  col- 
ored pictures  to  the  eye.  It  was  for  this  last 
pleasure  that  we  read  so  closely,  and  loved  our 
books  so  dearly,  in  the  bright,  troubled  period 
of  boyhood.  Eloquence  and  thought,  character 
and  conversation,  were  but  obstacles  to  brush 
aside  as  we  dug  blithely  after  a  certain  sort  of 
incident,  like  a  pig  for  truffles.  For  my  part,  I 
liked  a  story  to  begin  with  an  old  wayside  inn, 


236         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

where,  '  toward  the  close  of  the  }^ear  17 — ,'  sev- 
eral gentlemen  in  three-cocked  hats  were  playing 
bowls.  A  friend  of  mine  preferred  the  Malabar 
coast  in  a  storm,  with  a  ship  beating  to  windward, 
and  a  scowling  fellow  of  Herculean  proportions 
striding  along  the  beach;  he,  to  be  sure,  was  a 
pirate.  .  .  .  One  and  all,  at  least,  and  each  with 
his  particular  fancy,  we  read  story-books  in  child- 
hood, not  for  eloquence  or  character  or  thought, 
but  for  some  quality  of  the  brute  incident.  .  .  . 
Conduct  is  three  parts  of  life,  they  say;  but  I 
think  they  put  it  high.  There  is  a  vast  deal  in 
life  .  .  .  where  the  interest  turns  .  .  .  not  on 
the  passionate  slips  and  hesitations  of  the  con- 
science, but  on  the  problems  of  the  body  and  of 
the  practical  intelligence,  in  clean  open-air  adven- 
ture, the  shock  of  arms  or  the  diplomacy  of  life. 
With  such  material  as  this  it  is  impossible  to 
build  a  play,  for  the  serious  theatre  exists  solely 
on  moral  grounds,  and  is  a  standing  proof  of  the 
dissemination  of  the  human  conscience.  But  it  is 
possible  to  build,  upon  this  ground,  .  .  .  the 
most  lively,  beautiful,  and  buoyant  tales." 

Here,  in  the  words  of  a  great  artist  in  narra- 
tive, we  have  a  clear  and  comprehensive  state- 
ment of  the  possibilities  that  lie  open  to  the  maker 
of  the  moving-picture  play.  He  cannot  contend 
with  the  dramatist  in  working  out  those  problems 
of  conscience  which  confront  the  will;  he  cannot 


THE  MOVING-PICTURE  PLAY      237 

compete  with  the  novelist  in  analyzing  characters ; 
but  he  may  tell,  with  a  vividness  beyond  the  reach 
of  their  less  visual  expedients  of  appeal,  "  the 
most  lively,  beautiful,  and  buoyant  tales,"  in  which 
the  interest  is  centered  not  in  "  eloquence  or  char- 
acter or  thought "  but  in  "  some  quality  of  the 
brute  incident." 

It  is  evident,  therefore,  that  the  art  of  the 
moving-picture  play  is  not  an  art  to  be  despised 
or  ignored  by  serious  criticism.  It  represents,  in 
fact  —  to  look  upon  it  from  the  historical  point 
of  view  —  a  reversion  to  an  earlier  and  more 
perennially  refreshing  mood  of  narrative  than 
that  which  latterly  has  assumed  dominion  over  the 
novel  and  the  drama.  The  moving-picture  play 
carries  us  back  to  the  boyish  age  of  the  great  art 
of  telling  tales,  when  stories  were  narrated  nak- 
edly as  stories  instead  of  being  sicklied  o'er  with 
the  pale  cast  of  thought.  One  can  hardly  imagine 
Mr.  Henry  James  devising  a  successful  scenario 
for  the  kinematograph ;  but  the  Shakespeare  who 
wrote  Richard  III  and  the  Homer  who  wrote  the 
Odyssey  would  experience  no  difficulty  in  fulfilling 
the  requirements.  It  is  only  very  recently  that 
the  masters  of  the  art  of  fiction  have  made  war 
upon  the  optic  nerve  and  exalted  the  subjective 
over  the  objective.  Our  modern  interest  in  those 
intimate  phases  of  character  which  refuse  to  re- 
veal themselves  in  action  is,  certainly,   sophisti- 


238         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

cated  and  excessive.  It  is  therefore  with  a  feeling 
somewhat  of  relief  that  we  notice  that  the  newest 
of  all  the  arts  of  narrative  —  the  moving-picture 
play  —  disembarrasses  its  stories  of  psychologiz- 
ing, and  tells  them  in  the  free  and  boyish  spirit 
that  vivified  the  epic,  the  drama,  and  the  novel 
throughout  the  centuries  before  the  world  grew 
old. 

It  is  not  at  all  surprising  that  the  moving- 
picture  play  has  driven  out  of  existence  the  cheap 
type  of  popular  melodrama.  The  reason  is  not 
merely  that  the  moving-picture  show  could  under- 
sell the  regular  theatre  and  offer  a  performance 
for  five  cents  instead  of  for  ten,  twenty,  and 
thirty.  In  the  whole  history  of  the  world,  no  art, 
however  cheap,  has  ever  annihilated  a  more  ex- 
pensive art  which  was  basically  better  than  it- 
self. The  real  reason  for  the  triumph  of  the 
moving-picture  play  is  the  purely  critical  reason 
that  it  offered  a  more  artistic  type  of  narrative 
than  the  old  popular  melodrama.  In  cheap  melo- 
drama, all  that  was  worth  while  was  the  vividness 
and  the  variety  of  the  incidents ;  the  characters 
did  not  count,  except  as  puppets  in  the  plot;  and 
the  dialogue,  crude  and  frequently  absurd,  was 
more  a  bother  than  a  help.  In  abolishing  dialogue 
the  moving-picture  show  relieved  the  cheap  drama 
of  its  weakest  element;  it  could  suggest  character 
with  less  obvious  falsification  than  the  actual  pop- 


THE  MOVING-PICTURE  PLAY      239 

ular  drama ;  and  it  could  easily  excel  it  in  the 
projection  of  incidents,  both  on  the  score  of 
variety  and  on  the  score  of  vividness. 

The  thing  that  is  surprising  is  that,  except 
in  France,  the  moving-picture  play  has  not  more 
fully  availed  itself  of  those  artistic  opportunities 
which  are  open  to  it,  and  thereby  raised  itself  to 
competition  with  more  refined  and  more  expensive 
types  of  drama  than  were  set  forth  in  the  old 
ten,  twenty,  and  thirty-cent  theatres.  Many  of 
the  moving-picture  plays  which  may  now  be  seen 
are  good ;  but  only  a  little  imagination  is  needed 
to  see  that  they  might  easily  be  made  better. 
Certain  reports  in  the  newspapers  have  indicated 
recently  that  the  popular  interest  in  moving  pic- 
tures throughout  the  country  is  declining.  If 
this  be  true,  the  new  art  must  bestir  itself  to 
fulfil  more  completely  than  heretofore  the  high 
artistic  aims  of  which  it  is  indubitably  capable. 
It  is  too  good  an  art  for  the  public  to  lose;  and 
it  can  retain  its  popularity  if  it  labors  to 
deserve  it. 


XXII 

THE  ONE-ACT  PLAY  IN  AMERICA 


The  development  of  the  drama  Is  conditioned, 
more  than  that  of  any  other  art,  by  the  economic 
principle  of  supply  and  demand.  No  considerable 
number  of  playwrights  will  devote  their  energies, 
in  any  period,  to  writing  a  type  of  play  that  is 
seldom  or  never  called  for  in  the  theatre  of  that 
period.  At  the  present  time,  for  instance,  it 
would  be  a  waste  of  labor  for  an  author  to  con- 
struct a  play  in  two  parts,  of  five  acts  each,  to  be 
played  upon  successive  evenings,  because,  accord- 
ing to  our  present  social  custom,  it  would  be  im- 
possible to  persuade  any  audience  to  attend  the 
same  play  two  nights  running;  yet  this  form  was 
frequently  employed  in  the  Elizabethan  period 
(as  in  the  case  of  Marlowe's  Tamhurlaine  the 
Great)  and  again  in  the  Restoration  period  (as 
in  the  case  of  Dryden's  Conquest  of  Granada)^ 
and  even  so  recently  as  1873  it  was  used  by  Hcnrik 
Ibsen  for  his  "  world-historic  drama "  entitled 
Emperor  and  Galilean.  What  these  playwrights 
were  allowed  to  do,  in  other  ages,  by  the  custom 

240 


THE  ONE-ACT  PLAY  IN  AMERICA    Ml 

of  the  theatre,  our  own  authors  are  forbidden  to 
attempt  to-day. 

But  the  main  point  to  be  observed  is  that  the 
custom  of  the  theatre  is  a  variable  thing,  and  that 
just  as  certain  forms  may  be  allowed  to  lapse 
from  usage  in  any  period,  so  also  is  it  possible 
to  call  other  forms  into  active  exercise  by  the  in- 
centive of  a  general  demand.  The  structure  of 
the  drama  is  determined  mainly  by  the  social 
habits  of  the  theatre-going  public.  Such  ap- 
parently minor  matters  as  an  alteration  of  the 
dinner-hour,  for  example,  may  necessitate  a  revo- 
lution in  the  dramaturgic  methods  of  a  nation. 
In  its  original  form,  Hamlet  was  written  to  be 
played  at  three  p.  m.  and  to  continue  until  even- 
ing; but  the  piece  is  now  too  long  to  be  exhibited 
in  its  entirety  before  an  audience  that  dines  late 
and  prefers  to  go  to  the  theatre  after  dinner. 
If  Shakespeare  were  writing  this  tragedy  to-day, 
he  would  feel  impelled  to  tell  his  story  in  two 
hours,  and  he  would  probably  feel  forced  to  alter 
the  superb  opening  of  the  drama  in  order  to  dis- 
count the  inevitable  interruption  imposed  upon 
contemporary  playwrights  by  the  discourtesy  of 
tardy  diners. 

Thus  far,  the  theatre-system  in  America  has 
discouraged  the  composition  of  the  one-act  play, 
and  the  managers  who  regulate  our  theatres  have 
steadfastly  refused  to  be  persuaded  that  this  in- 


242         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

teresting  type  of  drama  would  be  welcomed  by  any 
considerable  proportion  of  the  theatre-going  pub- 
lic. But  the  managers  are  by  no  means  always 
right  in  their  estimates  of  what  the  public  does 
not  want,  —  a  fact  that  is  indicated  not  infre- 
quently when  some  adventurer  among  them 
achieves  an  emphatic  success  by  a  daring  depar- 
ture from  established  customs.  The  one-act  play 
is  so  worthy  in  itself,  as  a  medium  of  artistic  ex- 
pression, and  the  cultivation  of  this  form  would 
be  so  helpful  to  the  cause  of  our  dramatic  art 
in  general,  that  it  is  desirable  that  we  should  ex- 
amine carefully  the  present  attitude  of  the  public 
and  the  managers,  with  a  view  of  asking  whether 
it  would  not  be  possible,  without  running  counter 
to  the  present  social  customs  of  our  public,  to 
encourage  the  development  of  this  special  type  of 
drama. 

There  are,  generally  speaking,  only  three  ways 
in  which  the  one-act  play  can  be  afforded  a  pro- 
fessional production.  First,  it  may  be  exhibited 
in  vaudeville,  as  part  of  a  continuous  perform- 
ance whose  other  features  —  like  acrobats,  trained 
dogs,  and  song  and  dance  "  artists "  v/ho  can 
neither  sing  nor  dance  —  reveal  no  relation  what- 
soever to  the  art  of  the  drama.  Second,  it  may 
be  presented  in  a  legitimate  theatre  as  an  adjunct 
to  a  longer  play,  —  either  as  a  curtain-raiser  or 
as  an  after-piece.    Or  third,  it  is  possible  to  make 


THE  ONE-ACT  PLAY  IN  AMERICA    243 

up  a  special  evening's  bill  by  presenting  three  or 
four  one-act  plays  together.  Let  us  examine  in 
turn  the  conditions  which  surround  each  of  these 
opportunities  in  America  to-day. 

The  demand  for  one-act  plays  in  our  thousands 
of  vaudeville  theatres  is  nothing  short  of  enor- 
mous ;  and  yet  this  demand,  as  at  present  regu- 
lated, is  not  of  a  sort  to  encourage  sincere  artists 
to  write  for  these  theatres.  The  reason  is  that, 
whether  rightly  or  wrongly,  our  vaudeville  man- 
agers seem  to  have  made  up  their  minds  that  their 
audiences  have  no  brains.  They  have  apparently 
decided  that  only  two  types  of  dramatic  sketches 
can  successfully  be  presented  to  fifty-cent  audi- 
ences, —  first,  comic  skits  whose  humor  is  purpose- 
fully crude  and  is  achieved  mainly  by  means  of 
horseplay,  and,  second,  mechanical  melodramas 
whose  action  is  so  full  of  sound  and  fury  that 
they  bear  no  reference  to  life.  It  would  be  diffi- 
cult to  persuade  an  earnest  dramatist  to  waste 
his  energy  in  writing  either  of  these  types ;  and, 
judging  from  most  of  the  sketches  that  are  pre- 
sented in  these  theatres,  the  managers  do  not  even 
attempt  to  enlist  the  services  of  authors  who  can 
think  and  write. 

No  experience  could  be  more  depressing  to  any 
intelligent  person  than  to  spend  six  successive 
evenings  in  six  different  vaudeville  theatres  in 
New  York.     The  experiment,  if  attempted,  would 


244         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

probably  result  in  suicide  on  Sunday.  But  as  our 
hypothetical  person  of  intelligence  was  kissing  his 
assembled  family  a  last  farewell,  he  would  wist- 
fully be  moved  to  wonder  whether  the  vaudeville 
public  really  is  so  empty-headed  as  the  vaudeville 
managers  presume.  Undoubtedly  they  reason 
that,  since  the  public  fills  their  theatres,  the}^ 
must  be  giving  the  public  what  it  wants.  But 
does  it  follow,  necessarily,  that  the  same  public 
would  not  also  fill  their  theatres  if  they  gave  it 
something  better.''  There  are  millions  of  people 
in  this  country  who  can  afford  only  fifty  cents  for 
entertainment,  but  who,  feeling  that  entertain- 
ment is  an  imperative  necessity,  must  spend  their 
fifty  cents  for  whatever  the  vaudeville  managers 
are  willing  to  set  before  them.  They  suffer  from 
a  tragic  need  of  laughter;  and  the  fact  that  they 
laugh  easily  at  a  clown  whose  clothes  are  too  big 
for  him  does  not  at  all  indicate  that  they  would 
not  also  laugh  eagerly  at  the  whimsicalities  of 
Sir  James  Barrie.  In  many  of  our  minor  cities 
the  best  theatre  is  a  vaudeville  theatre ;  it  is 
patronized  by  the  best  people ;  and  we  must 
therefore  accept  as  a  logical  inference  the  sup- 
position that  the  audience  is  more  intelligent  than 
the  show.  But  this  inevitable  supposition  amounts 
to  a  reductio  ad  ahsurdum;  for  surely  the  only 
real  satisfaction  that  can  be  derived  by  an  in- 
telligent person  in  the  theatre  is  the  pleasure  of 


THE  ONE-ACT  PLAY  IN  AMERICA    245 

encountering  an  intelligence  more  able  than  his 
own.  The  few  good  one-act  plays  that  have  been 
produced,  in  recent  years,  in  vaudeville — like 
Madam  Butterfly  or  Barrie's  The  Twelve  Pound 
Look  —  have  been  accepted  with  enthusiasm  by 
the  public  of  the  cheaper  theatres ;  and  it  would 
seem  obvious  to  a  logical  mind  that  it  would  pay 
the  vaudeville  managers  to  supply  their  public 
with  other  plays  of  this  high  order  of  artistic 
merit.  But  the  hardest  thing  to  teach  any  the- 
atrical manager  is  the  advisability  —  from  the 
standpoint  of  mere  business  —  of  looking  up  to 
the  public  instead  of  down  upon  it ;  and,  solely 
because  of  this  fact,  our  vaudeville  theatres  at  the 
present  moment,  in  spite  of  their  enormous  need, 
offer  small  encouragement  to  the  composition  of 
worthy  one-act  plays  by  earnest  artists. 

Let  us  turn  our  attention,  therefore,  to  the  sec- 
ond possibility,  —  the  possibility  of  presenting 
one-act  plays  in  conjunction  with  longer  pieces. 
This  possibility  is  habitually  realized  in  London, 
—  but  with  unsatisfactory  results.  In  London, 
the  normal  dinner-hour  of  the  aristocracy  is  eight 
o'clock;  and  it  is  therefore  impossible  to  raise  the 
curtain  on  the  chief  play  of  the  evening  until  nine. 
But  since  the  pit  and  gallery  are  unreserved, 
these  sections  of  the  house  are  filled  before  eight 
o'clock  by  people  who  have  often  stood  in  line  for 
hours.     Since  it  is  necessary   to  entertain   these 


246         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

humbler  patrons  until  the  hour  when  the  aristo- 
crats are  ready  to  stroll  into  the  stalls,  it  is  a  cus- 
tom in  the  London  theatres  to  put  on  a  one-act 
play  as  a  prelude  to  the  main  piece  of  the  even- 
ing. But,  in  their  choice  of  these  curtain-raisers, 
the  London  managers  seem  influenced  by  a  depres- 
sive sense  that  only  the  less  important  part  of 
the  audience  will  see  them;  for  seldom  are  these 
one-act  plays  more  meritorious  than  those  which 
are  presented  in  our  cheaper  theatres  in  America. 
On  the  occasion  of  my  last  professional  visit  to 
London,  I  must  have  seen  over  thirty  curtain- 
raisers  ;  but  none  of  them  was  sufficiently  impres- 
sive to  linger  in  itiy  memory.  Here  again  we  have 
an  instance  of  an  opportunity  that  has  been 
thrown  away  because  the  managers  have  chosen 
to  look  down  upon  their  poorer  patrons. 

The  custom  of  using  curtain-raisers  is  not 
common  in  New  York,  for  the  reason  that  the 
dinner-hour  is  set  sixty  minutes  earlier  than  in 
London,  and  that  the  entire  audience  is  willing 
that  the  curtain  should  be  rung  up  at  twenty 
minutes  after  eight  —  provided,  of  course,  that 
everybody  be  allowed  the  boorish  privilege  of  com- 
ing late.  In  practice,  a  successful  British  play 
which,  in  London,  was  begun  at  nine  o'clock,  is 
begun  in  New  York  at  twenty  minutes  after  eight 
and  is  padded  out  with  unnecessary  intervals  be- 
tween the  acts.     By  this  process,  the  American 


THE  ONE-ACT  PLAY  IN  AMERICA    M7 

manager  makes  the  piece  apparently  fill  the  even- 
ing and  spares  himself  the  expense  of  preceding 
it  with  a  curtain-raiser. 

An  habitual  attendant  at  the  New  York  the- 
atres cannot  avoid  wondering  at  the  meekness  with 
which  the  public  tolerates  this  padding.  A  play 
that  has  been  announced  for  eight-twenty  will 
actually  be  begun  at  eight-forty ;  and,  after  every 
act,  fifteen,  or  often  twenty,  minutes  will  be 
wasted  in  an  entr^acte.  The  manager  is  satisfied 
if  he  can  contrive  to  defer  the  final  curtain-fall 
until  a  few  minutes  before  eleven ;  and  he  will  sub- 
sequently state  that  there  is  no  demand  for  one- 
act  plays,  because  the  public  is  unwilling  to  come 
to  the  theatre  before  eight-twenty  and  insists  on 
being  let  out  at  eleven.  He  will  tell  you  about  the 
large  proportion  of  the  theatre-going  public  that 
has  to  catch  suburban  trains ;  but  he  will  not  listen 
while  you  count  up  the  time  that  has  deliberately 
been  thrown  away  between  the  acts.  Here  again 
it  must  be  evident  that  an  opportunity  is  being 
wasted,  and  that  the  attitude  of  the  managers 
cannot  honestly  be  accepted  as  an  indication  of 
any  real  lack  of  interest,  on  the  part  of  the  pub- 
lic, in  the  production  of  one-act  plays. 

But  let  us  turn  now  to  the  consideration  of  the 
third  possibility,  which  is  the  most  promising  of 
all.  In  many  of  the  best  theatres  of  Europe  it 
is  customary  to  present  an  evening's  bill  that  is 


248         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

made  up  of  three  or  four  one-act  plays ;  and  there 
seems  to  be  no  logical  reason  why  a  similar  ex- 
periment should  not  be  successful  in  America. 
Recently,  Mr.  Charles  Frohman  attempted,  in 
London,  to  make  an  evening's  entertainment  out 
of  three  one-act  plays,  by  three  of  the  most  emi- 
nent of  English  dramatic  authors,  —  Sir  Arthur 
Pinero,  Sir  James  Barrie,  and  Mr.  Bernard  Shaw ; 
and  the  venture  failed  merely  because  the  Barrie 
play  was  the  only  one  of  the  trio  which  evoked 
the  approval  of  the  public.  The  example  of  the 
Grand  Guignol  in  Paris  has  been,  perhaps,  too 
often  cited.  The  policy  of  this  little  theatre  is 
based  upon  the  proposition  that  a  shock,  to  the 
nerves  or  to  the  conscience,  which  would  be  unen- 
durable if  protracted  through  three  acts,  may 
safely  be  effected  in  the  sudden,  brief  compass  of  a 
single  act.  Most  of  the  plays  exploited  at  the 
Grand  Guignol  have,  therefore,  been  sensational. 
The  authors  of  these  little  dramas  have  combined 
to  exhibit  lurid  glimpses  of  life  in  a  Chamber  of 
Horrors;  but  our  loitering  and  huge  and  kindly 
life  can  really  be  considered  no  more  as  a  chamber 
of  horrors  than  as  a  vale  of  tears.  The  Grand 
Guignol  has  shut  out  from  its  range  of  vision  the 
most  enjoyable  detail  of  human  life,  —  for  it  has 
shut  out  joy. 

In    Germany,    the    one-act    play    is    considered 
more   seriously   than   in   France.      A   typical  in- 


THE  ONE-ACT  TLAY  IN  AMERICA    2i9 

stance  is  the  evening's  entertainment  devised  by 
Hermann  Sudermann  witli  the  title  Morituri. 
This  bill  consists  of  three  distinct  one-act  plays 
which  are  related  to  each  other  only  by  the  cir- 
cumstance that,  in  each  of  them,  the  leading  char- 
acter is  condemned  to  inevitable  death  within 
twenty-four  hours  and  is  so  situated  that  he  can- 
not possibly  confide  his  doom  to  any  of  the  other 
characters.  Such  an  entertainment  as  this  is 
eagerly  received  by  the  public  of  the  German 
nations. 

In  the  English-speaking  countries,  the  only 
company  which  has  committed  itself  to  the  policy 
of  regularly  presenting  three  short  plays  in  a 
single  evening  is  the  company  of  Irish  Players  of 
the  Abbey  Theatre,  Dublin.  It  is  a  significant  fact 
that  this  company  has  repeated  its  success  at 
home  in  its  several  appearances  at  the  Court  The- 
atre in  London,  and  also  in  the  theatres  of  Boston, 
Chicago,  and  New  York.  Instead  of  offering  a 
repertory  of  two  or  three  four-act  plays,  this 
company  presents  a  repertory  of  no  less  than 
thirty-four  brief  compositions,  in  any  of  which  its 
members  are  prepared  to  appear  at  an  hour's  no- 
tice. It  is  not  difficult  to  estimate  the  oppor- 
tunity that  is  afforded,  by  this  policy,  to  the  ris- 
ing dramatists  of  Ireland.  When  I  expressed 
surprise  to  Lady  Gregory,  the  benign  and  moth- 
erly patron  of  the  Irish  Players,  that  one  of  their 


250         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

most  able  authors,  Mr.  St.  John  G.  Ervine,  was 
only  twenty-six  or  seven  years  of  age,  she  an- 
swered with  a  smile,  "  That  isn't  young  for  us." 
By  this  repertory  system  the  young  author  is 
encouraged  to  try  his  hand  at  one-act  plays  and 
is  enabled  to  achieve  a  reputation  in  his  'prentice 
years. 

Lady  Gregory  herself  —  perhaps  in  conse- 
quence of  the  demand  effected  by  the  policy  of 
this  very  company  —  is  one  of  the  most  accom- 
plished artists  in  the  one-act  form  now  writing 
in  the  English  language.  Her  brief  dramatic 
anecdotes  rarely  attain  the  tensity  that  is  expected 
in  a  full-length  play ;  but  they  are  deeply  human 
in  sagacity  and  broadly  generous  in  humor.  They 
remind  us  a  little  of  the  one-act  plays  of  Moliere ; 
and  their  unassailed  success  upon  the  American 
stage  leads  us  to  question  if  our  managers  have 
not  been  near-sighted  in  shying  away  from  the 
production  of  such  amiable  compositions  in  the 
past. 

The  only  point  that  may  be  advanced  against 
a  compound  theatre-bill  of  this  sort  is  the  point 
that  is  commonly  brought  forth  by  publishers  to 
explain  their  hesitance  in  bringing  out  a  volume 
of  short-stories.  It  may  be  urged  that  it  is  diffi- 
cult for  an  audience,  in  the  brief  space  of  two 
hours  and  a  half,  to  shift  its  sympathy  several 
times  from  one  set  of  characters  to  another.    This 


THE  ONE-ACT  PLAY  IN  AMERICA    251 

seems,  indeed,  to  constitute  a  real  objection  to  the 
compound  bill.  Especially  when  the  successive 
plays  are  to  be  performed  by  the  same  company 
of  actors,  it  is  difficult  for  the  auditors  to  forget 
the  first  piece  in  time  to  deliver  themselves  com- 
pletely to  the  second.  Yet  this  theoretical  objec- 
tion has  not  made  itself  apparent  in  the  practice 
of  the  Irish  Players ;  and  where  so  much  may  be 
gained  by  the  adoption  of  the  European  policy  of 
the  compound  bill,  it  would  seem  captious  to  insist 
upon  what,  after  all,  must  merely  be  a  minor 
point. 

n 

It  would  seem,  from  the  foregoing  considera- 
tions, that  the  present  prejudice  in  America 
against  encouraging  the  composition  of  the  one- 
act  play  is  lacking  in  logical  foundation.  But 
we  must  now  consider  the  more  important  ques- 
tion whether  the  one-act  play,  if  properly  en- 
couraged, would  prove  itself  worth  while.  To 
this  question  the  only  answer  must  be  emphatically 
in  the  affirmative. 

From  the  merely  practical  standpoint,  the  de- 
velopment of  the  one-act  play  is  desirable,  for  two 
very  different  reasons.  In  the  first  place,  a  broad 
market  for  the  one-act  play  would  afford  our 
rising  authors  a  needed  opportunity  for  the  ex- 
ercise   of    their    preliminary    efforts    toward    the 


252         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

broader  craft  of  dramaturgy.  At  present,  our 
magazine  system  affords  our  future  novelists  an 
opportunity  to  test  their  talents  in  the  cognate 
art  of  the  short-story.  The  short-story,  to  be 
sure,  is  distinct  from  the  novel  not  only  in  magni- 
tude but  also  in  method ;  but  a  training  in  the 
one  type  is  the  best  of  all  exercises  to  fit  a  young 
author  to  adventure  on  the  other.  To  prove  this 
point,  one  need  only  cite  the  instances  of  Haw- 
thorne and  Daudet.  But  at  present  our  incipient 
dramatists  are  afforded  no  opportunity  to  exer- 
cise their  wings  in  swallow-flights;  and  this  fact 
militates  strongly  against  the  general  effective- 
ness of  our  dramatic  art. 

As  much  time  is  required  to  write  a  single  four- 
act  play  as  to  write  half  a  dozen  one-act  plays. 
In  the  case  of  a  new  author,  his  ambitious  four- 
act  play  will  probably  be  bad;  but  if  he  could 
spend  the  same  time  in  working  out  six  little 
dramas  in  a  single  act,  it  is  probable  that  one  of 
them  at  least  might  be  worthy  of  production. 
Those  who  have  at  last  succeeded  in  a  difficult 
art  are  likely  to  forget  the  terrible  necessity  of 
encouragement  to  those  who  still  are  striving;  but 
one  success  in  six  brief  efforts  must  mean  more  to 
an  aspirant  than  the  failure  of  a  single  more 
ambitious  effort.  Hence,  in  order  to  encourage 
the  authors  of  a  younger  generation,  it  is  tre- 
mendously desirable  that  we  should  put  in  com- 


THE  ONE-ACT  PLAY  IN  AMERICA    253 

mon  practice  the  policy  of  producing  one-act 
plays. 

But,  of  course,  it  may  be  questioned  whether 
or  not  it  is  the  business  of  the  manager  to  en- 
courage the  efforts  of  the  rising  generation. 
Looking  at  the  matter  merely  from  the  financial 
standpoint,  this  question  must  be  decided  em- 
phatically in  the  affirmative.  It  is  true,  at  any 
time,  in  any  art,  that  "  the  old  order  changeth, 
yielding  place  to  new  " ;  and,  in  the  theatre,  that 
manager  is  most  sure  of  making  money  who  can 
hitch  his  wagon  to  the  rising  star  of  an  author  of 
real  promise.  It  would,  therefore,  be  profitable 
for  our  managers  to  establish  a  training-school 
for  the  talents  of  potential  dramatists ;  and  the 
most  efficient  training-school  would  be  a  theatre 
devoted  to  the  production  of  one-act  plays. 

In  the  second  place,  a  more  general  composition 
of  one-act  plays  would  offer  our  amateur  actors 
a  more  easy  opportunity  to  exercise  their  talents. 
The  production  of  the  average  drama  of  ordinary 
length  requires  an  expenditure  beyond  the  means 
of  amateurs;  but  the  majority  of  one-act  plays 
may  be  produced  at  very  small  expense.  Of 
course,  the  question  may  be  asked  why  the  guard- 
ians of  our  dramatic  destiny  should  trouble  their 
minds  at  all  to  consider  the  demands  of  amateurs ; 
but  the  answer  is  very  simple.  From  the  profes- 
sional standpoint,  the  advantage  of  amateur  act- 


254         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

ing  is  that  it  fits  the  amateur  performers  for  a 
more  comprehensive  enjoyment  of  the  achieve- 
ments of  the  professional  theatre.  The  surest 
way  to  teach  a  boy  or  girl  to  appreciate  the  ar- 
tistry of  the  sonnets  of  Rossetti  is  to  encourage 
the  student  to  write  sonnets  of  his  own.  His 
efforts  will  probably  be  bad ;  but  the  mere  exercise 
of  his  otherwise  unrewarded  attempts  will  pre- 
pare him  the  better  to  appreciate  the  achievement 
of  the  few  great  artists  who  have  succeeded  in  tl)e 
endeavor  which  has  proved  itself  beyond  his 
reach.  To  encourage  amateur  acting  is  to  pre- 
pare an  audience  for  the  keen  appreciation  of  the 
professional  theatre ;  and  any  policy  that  meets 
the  needs  of  amateurs  should  therefore  be  en- 
couraged. 

Ill 

But  apart  from  these  immediate  considerations, 
it  must  be  maintained  that  the  one-act  play  is  ad- 
mirable in  itself,  as  a  medium  of  art.  It  shows 
the  same  relation  to  the  full-length  play  as  the 
short-story  shows  to  the  novel.  It  makes  a  virtue 
of  economy  of  means.  It  aims  to  produce  a  single 
dramatic  effect  with  the  greatest  economy  of 
means  that  is  consistent  with  the  utmost  em- 
phasis. The  method  of  the  one-act  play  at  its 
best  is  similar  to  the  method  employed  by  Brown- 
ing in  his  dramatic  monologues.    The  author  must 


THE  ONE-ACT  PLAY  IN  AMERICA    255 

suggest  the  entire  history  of  a  soul  by  seizing 
it  at  some  crisis  of  its  career  and  forcing;  the 
spectator  to  look  upon  it  from  an  unexpected  and 
suggestive  point  of  view.  A  one-act  pla}'^,  in  ex- 
hibiting the  present,  should  imply  the  past  and 
intimate  the  future.  The  author  has  no  leisure 
for  laborious  exposition;  but  his  mere  projection 
of  a  single  situation  should  sum  up  in  itself  the 
accumulated  results  of  many  antecedent  causes. 
The  piece  should  be  inconclusive,  and  yet  preg- 
nant with  conclusions.  The  playwright  should 
open  a  momentary  little  vista  upon  life,  and  then 
—  with  a  sort  of  wistful  smile  —  should  ring  the 
curtain  down.  The  one-act  play,  at  its  best,  can 
no  more  serve  as  a  single  act  of  a  longer  drama 
than  the  short-story  can  serve  as  a  single  chapter 
of  a  novel.  The  form  is  complete,  concise,  and 
self-sustaining;  and  it  requires  an  extraordinary 
focus  of  imagination. 

In  view  of  the  technical  difficulties  of  this  ar- 
tistic form,  it  might  be  questioned  whether  we 
are  equipped  with  the  necessary  talent  to  achieve 
a  literature  of  one-act  plaj^s,  even  if  our  managers 
could  be  persuaded  to  offer  due  encouragement  to 
the  composition  of  this  type  of  drama ;  but  to 
this  question,  once  again,  the  only  answer  must 
be  in  the  affirmative.  It  is  undeniable  that  any 
of  our  established  dramatists  could  write  a  one- 
act  play  if  the  policy  of  our  theatres  should  en- 


256         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

courage  him  to  do  so ;  and  it  is  scarcely  less  de- 
niable that  acceptable  one-act  plays  might  be  writ- 
ten, under  the  stimulus  of  due  encouragement,  by 
any  of  the  large  army  of  authors  who  now  con- 
tribute meritorious  short-stories  to  our  American 
magazines.  There  can  be  no  question  that  we 
possess  the  talent;  all  that  remains  requisite  is  a 
theatrical  policy  that  shall  call  our  latent  talent 
into  active  exercise. 


XXIII 
ORGANIZING  AN  AUDIENCE 


Aet  thrives  upon  appreciation;  and  the  most 
vital  and  human  art  has  been  produced  in  those 
periods  when  the  love  of  art  has  been  widespread 
throughout  a  great  community.  The  general 
public  of  Periclean  Athens  loved  architecture, 
sculpture,  and  the  drama  with  a  love  like  that  for 
food  and  drink;  and  Phidias  and  Sophocles  were 
hailed  as  heroes  by  adoring  boys.  If  you  had  cast 
a  casual  stone  in  fourteenth-century  Florence, 
you  would  have  hit  some  lover  of  Madonnas. 
When  Cimabue  had  completed  his  Virgin  En- 
throned, the  entire  town  turned  out  for  a  holiday, 
and  bore  the  picture  —  their  picture  —  trium- 
phantly along  the  Street  of  the  Beautiful  Ladies, 
to  set  it  up  in  the  south  transept  of  Santa  Maria 
Novella.  And  if  in  Elizabethan  London  you  had 
mingled  with  the  jostling  throng  that  swarmed 
over  London  Bridge,  you  might  have  been  sure 
that  any  one  who  trod  upon  your  toes  had  ap- 
plauded the  acting  of  Burbage  and  hearkened  to 
the  hallowed  line,  "  The  rest  is  silence."  So,  in 
257 


258         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

the  great  age  of  Gothic  architecture,  the  entire 
populace  of  Amiens,  from  the  highest  noble  to  the 
lowest  peasant,  toiled  and  saved  and  sacrificed, 
and  poured  their  life's  substance  and  their  heart's 
desire  into  that  supreme  cathedral,  which  stands 
not  as  the  monument  of  a  single  architect,  nor 
even  of  a  group  of  architects,  but  as  a  monument 
of  civic  aspiration  and  communistic  joy. 

Art  is  misconceived  by  those  dilettanti  who  re- 
gard it  merely  as  the  personal  expression  of  some 
select  and  lonely  soul.  Art,  at  its  highest,  is 
neither  lonely  nor  select,  but  public  and  general 
in  its  appeal  and  its  importance ;  and  a  great 
work  of  art,  once  fashioned,  ceases  to  belong 
personally  to  the  man  who  made  it,  but  belongs 
instead  to  his  nation  and  his  age.  The  fact  that 
great  artists  appear  not  singly  but  in  groups, 
and  always  at  such  times  and  places  when  the 
general  public  recognizes  their  utterance  as  the  ex- 
pression of  its  own  unuttercd  ecstasy  of  life,  in- 
dicates that  art  should  be  regarded  not  as  a  func- 
tion of  the  individual,  but  as  a  function  of  the 
populace.  It  follows  that  the  best  way  to  eveke 
great  art  is  to  educate  the  public  to  a  great 
appreciation.  Give  the  plant  the  proper  soil,  and 
it  will  thrive  and  flower.  <_What  the  people  really 
want  they  assuredly  shall  have ;  and  when  they 
want  great  art,  great  artists  will  emerge  to  give 
it  to  them.?    If  we  want  great  statues  for  our 


ORGANIZING  AN  AUDIENCE       259 

city,  our  primary  concern  is  not  to  educate  a 
sculptor  to  fashion  them,  for  tlic  sculptor  can 
educate  himself;  our  concern  is,  rather,  to  edu- 
cate our  citizens  to  desire  them.  It  is  not  so  much 
our  painters  that  we  need  to  send  to  Rome  and 
Paris ;  but  if  —  in  a  spiritual  sense  —  we  could 
send  our  whole  community  to  the  capitals  of  art, 
we  should  surely  have  our  painting.  For  history 
teaches  us  that  great  men  arise,  as  if  by  miracle, 
to  fulfil  a  great  and  public  need:  there  has  rarely 
been  a  revolution  without  its  Washington,  there 
has  seldom  been  a  civil  war  without  its  Lincoln. 
Gather  a  great  community  all  eager  for  listening, 
and  Art  shall  speak  to  it  with  a  great  voice. 
When  all  Italy  wants  a  Michel  Angelo,  all  Italy 
shall  surely  have  him;  and  when  all  Elizabethan 
London  loves  the  drama,  some  Shakespeare  shall 
certainly  arise. 

But  if  all  this  applies  to  art  in  general,  it 
applies  with  a  particular  emphasis  to  that  most 
democratic  of  the  arts  —  the  drama.  In  a  special 
and  immediate  sense,  the  drama  is  a  function  of 
the  populace.  The  reality  of  an  acted  play  is 
evoked  by  a  collaboration  between  those  whose 
minds  are  active  behind  the  footlights  and  those 
whose  minds  are  active  in  the  auditorium ;  and  the 
phenomenon  will  fail  unless  the  minds  of  the  ar- 
tists and  the  minds  of  the  auditors  answer  each 
to  each  with  sympathy  and  appreciation.    It  is  no 


260         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

longer  necessary,  in  these  pages,  to  insist  that  the 
dramatist  is  dependent  on  his  audience  —  that  his 
themes,  his  thoughts,  and  his  emotions,  must  fall 
within  the  mental  range  of  the  multitude  that  he 
is  writing  for.  Without  an  appreciative  audi- 
ence a  play  cannot  endure:  empty  your  audito- 
rium, and  your  work  of  art  ceases  to  exist :  and  in 
the  theatre  the  general  and  democratic  public  tells 
emphatically,  by  its  patronage,  what  it  is  the  pub- 
lic wants.  The  power  to  save  or  damn  a  play  is 
vested  neither  in  the  author  nor  the  actor  nor 
the  critic  nor  the  manager;  it  is  vested  solely  in 
the  audience.  It  follows,  with  irrefutable  logic, 
that  to  support  a  worthy  drama  you  must  have  a 
worthy  public,  and  that  a  noble  dramatist  can 
arise  and  do  his  work  only  when  he  is  assured  of 
the  appreciation  of  a  noble  audience. 

Here,  then,  we  strike  at  the  heart  of  the  fallacj'^ 
of  most  of  those»dreamers  who  endeavor  to  uplift 
the  stage.  They  begin  upon  the  wrong  side  of 
the  footlights.  They  try  to  uplift  the  author  or 
the  actor  or  the  manager;  whereas,  to  attain  any 
real  result,  they  ought  first  to  uplift  the  audience. 
They  complain  because  the  managers  are  com- 
mercial ;  but  there  is  no  solid  ground  for  this 
complaint.  Every  art  must  be  fostered  by  a 
business ;  the  dramatic  art  must  be  exploited  by 
the  theatre  business ;  and  the  manager  must  be  a 
business  man.     A  business  man  would  be  a  fool 


ORGANIZING  AN  AUDIENCE        261 

unless  he  regulated  his  business  in  accordance  with 
the  primary  economic  principle  of  supply  and 
demand.  Shakespeare  and  Moliere,  who  were  man- 
agers, as  well  as  actors  and  dramatists,  con- 
ducted their  business  upon  this  economic  prin- 
ciple and  were  just  as  commercial  as  Mr.  Shubert 
or  Mr.  Brady.  Also,  when  a  dramatist  has  writ- 
ten one  sort  of  play  that  the  public  likes,  it  is 
futile  to  berate  him  and  demand  that  he  shall 
write  another  sort  of  play  that  his  public  does 
not  like;  and  it  is  silly  to  ask  an  actress  who 
plays  a  chorus-lady  well  to  play  Lady  Macbeth 
badly,  in  the  fancied  interests  of  art.  The  only 
movement  for  uplifting  the  stage  which  can  have 
any  practical  and  good  result  must  be  a  move- 
ment for  uplifting  the  audience.  The  way  to 
hnprove  the  author,  the  actor,  and  the  manager 
leads  through  the  box-office.  Pay  them  better  to 
produce  and  exploit  the  best  dramatic  art,  and 
they  will  not  fob  you  off  with  art  that  is  inferior; 
they  will  not  be  able  to  afford  to  do  so. 

These  considerations  are  immediate  and  prac- 
tical ;  but,  in  a  larger  and  more  idealistic  out- 
look, it  is  clear  that  we  cannot  expect  great  art 
in  our  theatre  until  our  audience  is  ready  for  it. 
So  long  as  the  public  remains  contented  with  in- 
feriority, our  drama  will  remain  inferior.  So 
long  as  a  masterpiece  of  dramaturgic  craftsman- 
ship like  The  Thunderbolt  is  allowed  tc  pass  un- 


STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

appreciated  by  our  public,  so  long  must  man- 
agers prefer  to  set  forth  a  tawdry  monstrosity 
like  Everywoman.  So  long  as  the  public  applauds 
Miss  Adams's  performance  in  Chant ecler  and  re- 
fuses to  appreciate  Mr.  Frank  Reicher's  perform- 
ance in  The  Scarecrow,  so  long  will  false  acting 
hold  its  own  against  true  acting  on  our  stage.  One 
of  the  things  that  the  American  theatre  of  to-day 
stands  most  in  need  of  is  a  sane,  persistent  move- 
ment to  educate  the  public  taste  in  drama  and  im- 
prove the  mental  tenor  of  the  average  audience, 

n 

But,  in  present-day  America,  the  problem  of 
educating  the  theatre-going  public,  and  the 
further  problem  of  holding  it  together  after  it  is 
educated,  are  both  extremely  difficult.  In  re- 
viewing the  history  of  the  theatre,  we  perceive 
that  in  every  great  age  of  dramatic  art  the  audi- 
ence has  heretofore  been  concentrated  in  a  single 
city.  Sophocles  in  Athens,  Shakespeare  in  Lon- 
don, Moliere  in  Paris,  could  look  their  auditors 
in  the  eyes.  The  entire  state  was  centered  in  a 
city ;  and  the  whole  theatre-going  population  of 
that  city  was  under  the  immediate  observation 
of  the  great  theatric  artists.  They  were  not 
troubled  by  any  doubt  as  to  where  their  public 
was  to  be  found  or  who  the  people  were  who  made 
it  up.     The  theatre-going  population  of  Athens, 


ORGANIZING  AN  AUDIENCE        263 

London,  or  Paris  was  not,  according  to  our  mod- 
ern notions,  very  large ;  but  it  was  so  concentrated 
that  it  could  easily  and  eagerly  support  a  whole 
great  group  of  dramatists.  In  America,  at  the 
present  day,  there  must  actually  be  more  people 
who  are  able  to  appreciate  the  best  dramatic  art 
than  there  ever  were  in  the  Athens  of  Sophocles, 
the  London  of  Shakespeare,  or  the  Paris  of 
Moliere ;  there  must,  indeed,  be  many  times  the 
number,  for  our  population  is  enormous  and  the 
standards  of  our  public  education  are  higher  than 
those  of  Elizabethan  London  or  the  Paris  of  the 
Grand  Monarque.  But  our  problem  is  to  find  out 
who  these  people  are  and  where  they  are.  They  are 
not  concentrated  in  a  single  city.  They  are  scat- 
tered over  a  widespread  continent;  and  they  are 
intermingled  with  eighty  million  other  people  who 
do  not  care  about  dramatic  art  at  all.  No  dram- 
atist can  look  them  in  the  eyes ;  and  when  a  play 
is  produced  that  makes  a  special  appeal  to  the 
best  minds,  the  manager  does  not  know  where  to 
send  it. 

Our  problem,  therefore,  is  not  only  to  improve 
our  audience  but  also  to  organize  it.  We  need 
to  discover  what  people  constitute  already  our 
best  theatre-going  public ;  we  want  their  names 
and  their  addresses ;  we  need  to  estimate  their 
numerical  strength  and  to  study  their  geographic 
distribution.     If  they  will  come  forward  publicly, 


264         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

in  a  solid  organization,  and  will  demand  good 
drama,  the  managers  will  have  to  find  it  for  them, 
and  will  be  forced,  by  that  same  principle  of 
supply  and  demand,  to  cry  out  to  the  creators  for 
good  art  until  they  get  it. 

m 

These  two  problems  —  the  problem  of  educat- 
ing the  theatre-going  public,  and  the  problem  of 
discovering  and  organizing  the  educated  public 
that  already  exists  in  scattered  units  throughout 
the  country  —  are  being  coped  with  courageously 
by  a  noteworthy  society  that  is  known  as  the 
Drama  League  of  America.  This  society  be- 
gan with  an  idea;  and  consequently  much  more 
may  be  hoped  from  it  than  from  the  New  Theatre 
foundation  in  New  York,  which  began  merely  with 
a  building.  It  began,  also,  without  money,  and 
this  is  another  hopeful  sign ;  for  it  is  an  error  to 
suppose  that  the  theatre  may  be  uplifted  by  the 
unadvised  munificence  of  millionaires.  Art,  in- 
deed, is  ever  in  need  of  money ;  but  it  is  always 
more  in  need  of  thought :  and  thus  far  the  Drama 
League  has  multiplied  itself  amazingly,  without 
endownment,  by  the  sheer  strength  of  the  idea 
behind  it. 

This  idea  occurred,  in  the  first  instance,  to 
certain  women  in  Evanston,  Illinois,  who  had 
formed  themselves  into  a  Drama  Club  for  the  pur- 


ORGANIZING  AN  AUDIENCE        265 

pose  of  studying  the  best  dramatic  literature  and 
observing  the  best  plays  presented  during  the 
season  in  the  neighboring  city  of  Chicago.  They 
appointed  a  study  committee  to  make  out  a  sylla- 
bus of  plays  and  criticisms  to  be  read,  and  a  play- 
going  committee  to  attend  all  productions  of 
legitimate  drama  in  Chicago  and  subsequently  tell 
their  fellow-members  which  of  the  plays  they  had 
attended  were  the  best  to  see.  It  then  occurred 
to  these  women  that  if  their  system  could  be  ex- 
panded till  it  covered  the  continent  it  would  re- 
sult both  in  the  education  and  in  the  organization 
of  a  better  theatre-going  public  than  the  hetero- 
geneous and  scattered  public  that  exists  to-day. 
Consequently,  on  April  25,  1910,  they  called  a 
meeting  at  the  Art  Institute  in  Chicago,  which 
was  attended  by  delegates  from  sixty-three  clubs, 
aggregating  ten  thousand  members.  At  this 
meeting  they  expounded  their  idea;  it  was  ac- 
cepted with  enthusiasm  by  the  affiliated  clubs ;  and 
the  Drama  League  of  America  was  launched.  In 
three  years  and  a  half  it  has  expanded  to  a  mem- 
bership of  over  fifty  thousand,  federally  organ- 
ized in  every  state  of  the  Union ;  and  the  National 
Federation  of  Women's  Clubs  has  placed  its  de- 
partment of  drama  study  under  the  direction  of 
the  League  and  advised  every  woman's  club  in  the 
country  to  join  the  organization. 

It  is  entirely  fitting  that  this  great  movement 


^66         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

should,    at    the    outset,    be    fostered    mainly    by 
women  and  by  women's  clubs ;  for  every  student 
of  the  contemporary  theatre  knows  that  the  des- 
tiny of  our  drama  has  lain  for  a  long  time  in  the 
hands  of  women.     Shakespeare  wrote  for  an  audi- 
ence made  up  mainly  of  men  and  boys,  and  gave 
them   Rosalind   and   Falstaff:   Ibsen    and   Pinero 
have  written  for  an  audience  made  up  mainly  of 
women,  and  have  given   them  Nora  Helmer  and 
Zoe   Blundell.      Our   matinee   audiences   are   com- 
posed almost  entirely  of  women;  and  our  evening 
audiences  are  composed  of  women  also,  and  the 
men  that  they  have  brought  with  them.      Every 
contemporary  playwright  knows  that  it  is  by  the 
suffrages  of  women  that  his  work  must  stand  or 
fall ;  in  fact,  the  theatre  is  to-day  the  one  great 
public  institution  in  which  "  votes  for  women  "  is 
the  rule,  and  men  are  overwhelmingly   outvoted. 
Any  movement  to  improve  the  theatre-going  pub- 
lic, an}'^  movement   to   uplift  the   audience,   must 
therefore    be     directed     toward     the    women    of 
America;   and  it   is  logical  and  fitting  that  the 
campaign  of  education  and  the  campaign  of  or- 
ganization should  be  conducted  by  women  and  by 
women's  clubs. 

In  conducting  both  of  these  campaigns  the 
Drama  League  of  America  has  proceeded  with  a 
reassuring  sanity.  Believing  firmly  that  any  en- 
deavor toward  the  amelioration  of  dramatic  art 


ORGANIZING  AN  AUDIENCE       267 

must  be  conducted  democratically,  the  League  has 
opened  its  membership  to  every  one  and  has  fixed 
its  annual  dues  at  the  low  sum  of  one  dollar. 
Anybody  who  is  interested  in  the  movement  may 
at  once  become  a  member  of  the  League  by  send- 
ing one  dollar  to  the  secretary  of  the  nearest 
center.  In  return  he  will  receive,  as  they  are 
issued,  all  the  publications  of  the  League.  These 
publications  consist  of  outlines  for  study  pre- 
pared by  the  Educational  Committee  and  bulletins 
concerning  current  plays  prepared  by  the  Play- 
going  Committee. 

The  Drama  Study  Department  prepares  and 
issues  several  courses  every  year  in  the  study  of 
the  drama.  Each  of  these  courses  is  outlined  in 
a  syllabus,  giving  lists  of  plays  and  books  of 
reference  and  criticism,  so  that  any  one,  by  fol- 
lowing the  syllabus,  can  read  his  way  easily 
through  the  course  in  any  public  library.  Such 
eminent  educators  as  Professor  George  Pierce 
Baker  and  Professor  Brander  Matthews  have 
given  their  time  to  the  preparation  of  these  out- 
lines. Under  the  leadership  of  Mr.  W.  N.  C. 
Carlton,  librarian  of  the  Newberry  Library  in 
Chicago,  a  movement  has  been  instituted  for  the 
segregation,  in  public  libraries  throughout  the 
country,  of  the  books  included  in  these  courses, 
so  that  they  may  be  set  hnmediately  accessible  to 
every  one.     By   this  means  any   theatre-goer  in 


268         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

any  city  of  America  may,  without  any  expendi- 
ture of  money,  educate  himself  toward  an  appre- 
ciation of  the  best  that  has  been  thought  and  said 
in  the  theatre  of  the  world,  and  may  thus  im- 
prove the  standards  of  his  own  taste  regarding 
the  contemporary  drama. 

But  the  work  of  the  Play-going  Committee  is 
even  more  interesting  in  its  possibilities.  This 
committee  is  made  up  of  two  sections  —  a  local, 
non-professional  group  who  attend  all  the  legiti- 
mate productions  in  a  given  center,  and  an  ad- 
visory, professional  board,  consisting  of  such  emi- 
nent critics  of  the  drama  as  Mr.  Walter  Prichard 
Eaton,  Mr.  Charles  H.  Caffin,  Professor  Richard 
Burton,  and  others  of  similar  standing.  The  mem- 
bers of  the  local  board  pay  for  their  seats  and  es- 
tablish no  professional  relation  with  the  managers. 
After  seeing  a  certain  play,  they  talk  it  over:  if 
they  deem  it  unworthy  of  recommendation,  they 
make  no  announcement  whatsoever  to  the  members 
of  the  League :  but  if  they  deem  it  worthy  of  sup- 
port, they  at  once  issue  a  bulletin  advising  the 
members  of  the  League  to  see  it  and  stating  suc- 
cinctly the  reasons  why  it  should  be  seen.  They 
condemn  nothing;  but,  upon  the  appearance  of  a 
good  play,  they  urge  their  many  thousand  mem- 
bers to  support  it  with  a  paying  attendance  early 
ir  its  run. 

T)uring  the  first  year  of  the  League's  activity, 


ORGANIZING  AN  AUDIENCE        269 

the  local  committee  in  Chicago  attended  fifty- 
three  performances,  and  issued  fourteen  bulletins 
recommending  twenty-three  plays.  The  range 
of  their  appreciation  was  catholic.  They  not  only 
recommended  Little  Eyolf ;  but  it  is  reassuring  to 
note  that  they  also  recommended  The  Aviator,  on 
the  ground  (to  quote  their  bulletin)  that,  "like 
good  farce  in  general,  the  play  is  diverting  and 
refreshing."  This  touch  of  human  nature  relieves 
them  of  any  possible  imputation  of  being  "  high- 
brow "  in  their  tastes ;  for  it  takes  a  pretty  sane 
committee  to  enjoy  both  the  merry  breeze  of 
farce  and  the  miasma  of  the  later  Ibsen.  In  the 
opinion  of  the  present  writer,  they  recommended 
only  two  plays  which  were  unworthy  of  support ; 
and,  on  the  other  hand,  they  committed  only  a 
single  sin  of  omission.  A  similar  work  is  now 
accomplished  in  several  other  centers,  —  notably 
New  York,  Brooklyn,  Boston,  Philadelphia, 
Washington,  and  Los  Angeles;  and,  in  due  time, 
by  an  exchange  of  bulletins  from  one  producing 
center  to  another,  it  will  become  possible  so  to 
coordinate  this  campaign  that  any  recommended 
play  will  be  greeted  by  an  adequate  audience  when 
it  moves  to  a  new  city  on  its  route. 

The  president  of  the  Drama  League,  Mrs.  A. 
Starr  Best,  of  Evanston,  Illinois,  has  written  to 
the  present  writer,  "  We  have  no  definite  pledge 
from  any  of  our  members:  they  are  merely  ex- 


270         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

pected  to  support  League  plays  whenever  pos- 
sible, and  when  attending  the  theatre  to  choose  a 
League  play."  It  seems  to  me  that  the  power  of 
the  League  would  be  greatly  increased  if  those  of 
its  members  who  can  easily  afford  to  attend  at 
least  twenty  plays  a  year  would  definitely  pledge 
themselves  to  give  their  financial  support  to  all 
the  plays  which  are  recommended  to  them  by  their 
Play-going  Committee.  A  pledged  attendance  of 
ten  thousand  in  any  important  producing  center 
would  absolutely  insure  the  success  of  a  produc- 
tion; and  such  an  organized  audience  would  be 
able  to  demand  from  the  commercial-minded  man- 
agers a  first-class  presentation  of  any  play  they 
wished  to  see.  Such  productions,  for  example,  as 
Mr.  Laurence  Irving's  very  interesting  presenta- 
tions of  those  two  masterpieces  by  M.  Eugene 
Brieux,  The  Affinity/  (Les  Hannetons)  and  The 
Three  Daughters  of  M.  Dupont,  could  have  been 
kept  alive  for  an  entire  season  and  sent  from  city 
to  city  if  they  had  been  called  for  by  an  or- 
ganized audience  pledged  to  pay  its  money  for 
good  art.  And  when  the  League  increases  to  a 
hundred  thousand  members,  it  can,  by  tabulating 
geographically  its  constituents,  exert  an  influence 
over  the  bookings  of  the  managers  which  neither 
of  the  two  big  booking  syndicates  will  be  willing 
to  resist.  Thus,  in  time,  any  play  which  should 
be  approved  by  the  best  scholars  and  critics  of  the 


ORGANIZING  AN  AUDIENCE        271 

drama  in  America  would  be  insured  against  finan- 
cial failure.  From  this  it  would  be  but  a  step  to 
a  condition  under  which  a  bad  play  would  not  be 
able,  financially,  to  hold  its  own :  Everywoman 
would  go  under  and  The  Thunderbolt  survive. 

The  Drama  League  of  America  is  also  institut- 
ing a  movement  to  encourage  the  publication  of 
such  contemporary  plays  as  are  approved  by  its 
advisory  committee.  This,  again,  is  an  excellent 
idea.  Our  publishers  have  hitherto  been  chary  of 
printing  plays  because  they  have  considered  it 
impossible  to  sell  them.  But  if  only  two  thousand 
members  of  the  League  would  pledge  themselves 
to  buy  such  plays  as  their  committee  recommends, 
there  is  not  a  first-class  publishing  house  in 
America  that  would  not  be  eager  to  place  these 
plays  upon  the  market.  There  must  surely  be 
two  thousand  readers  in  this  country  who  would 
be  glad  to  read,  for  instance,  such  a  delicate  and 
exquisite  comedy  as  The  Mollusc,  by  Mr.  Hubert 
Henry  Davies.  If,  by  organizing  and  announc- 
ing themselves,  they  will  tell  the  publishers  who 
and  where  they  are,  the  publication  of  such  pieces 
will  henceforth  be  assured. 

IV 

There  is  yet  another  labor  which,  in  the  opin- 
ion of  the  present  writer,  it  is  the  duty  of  the 
Drama  League  to  undertake,  in  pursuance  of  its 


272         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

purpose  to  improve  the  quality  and  the  constitu- 
tion of  the  theatre-going  pubHc.  This  is  the 
labor  of  discouraging  dramatic  criticism  that  is 
bad  by  encouraging  dramatic  criticism  that  is 
good.  The  League  should  swing  the  full  power 
of  its  organized  constituency  to  the  support  of 
the  very  few  newspapers  and  magazines  through- 
out the  country  that  treat  the  drama  seriously. 
The  reason  why  most  newspapers,  and  even  many 
magazines,  report  plays  as  they  report  baseball 
games  is  that  their  publishers  and  editors  honestly 
believe  that  the  reading  public  does  not  care  for 
scholarly  and  dignified  and  earnest  criticism. 
These  gentlemen  should  be  taught  the  falsity  of 
their  underestimate  of  the  intelligence  and  inter- 
est of  the  theatre-going  public. 

It  is  a  disgrace  to  our  theatre  and  an  insult 
to  our  public  that,  instead  of  employing  men  like 
Mr.  A.  B.  Walkley,  Mr.  Wilham  Archer,  and  Mr. 
Bernard  Shaw,  to  teach  us  what  is  admirable  in 
the  best  labors  of  our  dramatists,  many  of  our 
newspapers  of  largest  circulation  and  widest  in- 
fluence employ  reporters  to  comment  on  the  color 
of  an  actor's  waistcoat  or  a  leading  lady's  eyes. 
To  cultivate  a  noble  audience  in  America  we  shall 
need  the  service  of  true  criticism  and  the  honor- 
able labors  of  true  critics.  But  though  good 
criticism,  like  good  art,  may  be  had  for  the  ask- 
ing, the  public  must  arise  and  ask  for  it. 


XXIV 

THE  FUNCTION  OF  DRAMATIC 
CRITICISM 

If  I  were  asked  to  name  the  one  thing  that 
the  drama  in  America  stood  most  in  need  of  at 
the  present  moment,  I  should  say  dramatic  criti- 
cism. In  order  to  cultivate  the  finest  flower  of 
any  art,  it  is  necessary  to  coordinate  to  a  com- 
mon end  the  complementary  activities  of  the  pro- 
ductive spirit  and  the  critical  spirit.  The  the- 
atre in  America  is  at  present  fairly  healthy  on 
the  productive  side.  We  have  at  least  one  native 
dramatist  whose  work  is  worthy  of  serious  con- 
sideration ;  we  have  several  native  playwrights  of 
real  promise ;  we  have  many  able  actors ;  we  have 
three  or  four  great  stage-directors ;  and  we  have 
one  or  two  managers  who  import  the  best  plays 
of  other  nations,  and  make  it  possible  for  us  to 
see  them  on  our  stage  and  to  compare  them  with 
our  own.  But  our  dramatic  movement  is  deficient 
on  the  critical  side.  We  have  at  present  no  dra- 
matic critic  of  the  first  rank,  —  none  who  may  be 
classed,  for  instance,  with  Mr.  A.  B.  Walklcy  of 
the  London  Times;  and  we  have  only  three  or 
273 


274         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

four  writers  who  seem  to  be  making  any  earnest 
effort  to  achieve  the  purpose  of  dramatic  criti- 
cism. It  is  not  that  our  newspapers  and  our 
magazines  devote  too  little  attention  to  the  the- 
atre; they  devote,  indeed,  too  much;  but  this  at- 
tention is  not  critical  in  spirit.  Nearly  every 
newspaper  in  the  country  gives  up  many  columns 
every  week  to  comment,  of  some  sort,  upon  the 
theatre;  and  many  of  our  magazines  conduct  de- 
partments that  are  devoted  to  the  stage.  But  the 
more  we  read  the  newspapers  and  the  magazines, 
the  more  we  shall  perceive  that  the  great  majority 
of  our  professional  commentators  on  the  theatre 
are  not,  in  the  true  sense,  critics,  and  do  not  even 
aim  to  be.  In  fact,  the  one  feature  of  their  writ- 
ing that  strikes  us  most  emphatically  is  the  ab- 
sence of  any  endeavor  or  desire  to  fulfil  the  func- 
tion of  dramatic  criticism. 

Concerning  the  function  of  criticism  in  gen- 
eral, there  can  be,  I  think,  no  question.  It  was 
stated  once  for  all  by  Matthew  Arnold,  in  one 
of  those  luminous  phrases  which,  as  soon  as  they 
are  formulated,  seem  to  have  been  graven  for- 
ever upon  granite.  He  defined  criticism  as 
"  a  disinterested  endeavor  to  learn  and  propa- 
gate the  best  that  is  known  and  thought  in  the 
world,  and  thus  to  establish  a  current  of  fresh 
and  true  ideas."  From  this  we  may  derive  the 
definition  of  dramatic   criticism  as   "  a  disinter- 


FUNCTION  OF  DRAMATIC  CRITICISM   275 

estcd  endeavor  to  learn  and  propagate  tlie  best 
that  is  known  and  thought  in  the  theatre  of 
the  world."  The  critic  incurs  a  double  duty,  — 
first,  to  learn,  and  secondly,  to  teach:  —  to  study 
in  general  the  theatre  of  the  world,  and  in  par- 
ticular the  theatre  of  his  own  place  and  time,  in 
an  unfaltering  endeavor  to  discover  what  is  best 
in  the  current  drama ;  and  then  to  teach  the  pub- 
lic what  is  best  by  making  clear  the  reasons  why. 
His  ultimate  responsibility  is  not  to  the  creator 
but  to  the  public.  It  is  not  his  duty  to  teach  Sir 
Arthur  Pinero  how  to  write  plays  (supposing  that 
were  possible!):  it  is  his  duty  to  teach  the  public 
how  Sir  Arthur  Pinero  has  written  them.  But  to 
do  this,  he  must  first  have  learned,  and  learned 
from  the  creative  masters  of  the  art. 

The  first  mark  of  the  true  critic  is,  therefore, 
the  eagerness  to  learn.  Criticism  requires,  as  a 
firm  foundation,  both  a  broad  and  general  culture 
and  a  deep  particular  equipment  for  the  work  in 
hand.  The  critic  must  be  cognizant  of  life;  for 
the  drama  is  a  visioning  of  life,  and  how  can  he 
judge  the  counterfeit  presentment  unless  he  knows 
the  zest  and  tang  of  the  original  .^  He  must  be 
familiar  with  the  aims  and  methods  of  the  other 
arts;  for  how  else  can  he  judge  that  complex 
product,  a  modern  acted  play,  where  all  the  arts 
do  seem  to  set  their  seal?  He  must  have  studied 
thoroughly  the  drama  of  other  times  and  lands ; 


276         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

for  by  what  standard,  otherwise,  can  he  appraise 
the  merit  of  the  drama  now  at  hand?  And  all 
these  studies  should  have  furnished  him  material 
from  which  to  derive  inductively  the  principles  to 
guide  him  in  his  judgment.  These  principles 
(which  are  empirical  always,  and  never  a  priori) 
he  should  build  into  a  body  of  belief;  and  this 
philosophy  of  the  dramatic  art  he  should  ex- 
pound, whenever  necessary,  to  the  public,  and 
should  illustrate,  whenever  possible,  in  each  par- 
ticular review. 

So  much  for  the  necessity  of  culture.  Let 
us  turn  now  to  that  other  necessity  of  a  particular 
equipment  for  the  work  in  hand.  The  art  of  the 
drama  is  a  living  thing,  and  like  all  living  things 
is  growing.  As  a  consequence,  the  philosophy  of 
the  drama,  in  any  period  of  criticism,  can  be  re- 
garded only  as  pragmatical.  A  principle  will 
serve  only  so  long  as  it  will  serve.  A  new  inven- 
tion (like  electric-lighting,  for  example)  may 
quickly  revolutionize  the  making  of  plays  and  re- 
quire a  consonant  revolution  in  the  principles  of 
judging  them.  The  very  next  play  to  be  pro- 
duced may  demand  of  the  critic  that  he  shall 
broaden,  or  materially  alter,  his  body  of  belief: 
for — let  us  insist  again  —  the  purpose  of  criti- 
cism is  never  to  announce  dogmatically  how  plays 
shall  be  made  (for  that  would  be  absurd),  but  al- 
ways to  explain  how  they  have  been  made,  and  to 


FUNCTION  OF  DRAMATIC  CRITICISM   277 

elucidate  tlie  reasons  why.  The  critic,  therefore, 
can  never  rest  upon  his  oars ;  he  can  never  be 
certain  that  what  he  knows  already  has  equipped 
him  fully  to  appreciate  the  next  important  dram- 
atist who  may  appear.  Therefore,  he  should 
keep  his  mind  forever  fresh  and  open,  to  receive 
and  to  evaluate  each  new  impression,  with  all  its 
possibilities  of  principle.  The  dramatic  critic 
must  be  a  tireless  theatre-goer.  To  be  a  theatre- 
goer is  not  considered,  by  most  people,  difficult; 
but  to  maintain  a  tireless  and  searching  mind 
amid  a  making  of  many  plays  to  which  there 
seems  to  be  no  end  requires  a  moral  power  which 
ranks  only  a  little  on  the  hither  side  of  the 
heroic. 

And  there  are  other  moral  qualities  without 
which  a  writer  cannot  serviceably  fulfil  the  func- 
tion of  dramatic  criticism,  however  broad  his  cul- 
ture, however  thorough  his  equipment.  The  first 
of  these  is  sympathy;  and  this  quality  is  rare. 
The  critic  must  exercise  an  eager  catholicity  of 
taste.  He  must  appreciate  not  only  what  he  likes 
but  also  what  he  does  not  like,  provided  that 
there  be  any  adequate  reason  why  other  people 
like  it.  In  his  tireless  and  impersonal  searching 
for  the  best,  he  must  equably  evaluate  whatever 
is  good  of  its  kind  in  any  type  of  play.  He 
should  judge  a  given  work  in  accordance  with  the 
endeavor  of  the  author.     He  must  find  out  what 


278         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

sort  of  effect  the  author  intended  to  produce  and 
then  determine  to  what  extent  he  has  succeeded 
in  producing  that  effect.  Ibsen  intende.d  a  cer- 
tain effect  in  Hedda  Gabler;  and  if  that  were  a 
new  play,  it  would  not  be  at  all  fair  for  the  critic 
to  prejudge  it  adversely  because  that  effect  is  to- 
tally different  from  the  effect,  for  example,  that 
Shakespeare  intended  m  As  You  Like  It.  Though 
a  man  may  write  of  Shakespeare  with  the  elo- 
quence of  angels,  he  is  still  an  inefficient  critic 
unless  he  can  both  learn  and  teach  the  merits  of 
Ibsen,  who  has  made  some  stir  in  the  theatre  of 
the  world  with  work  of  an  entirely  different  or- 
der. The  critic  should  have  no  prejudices.  Al- 
though he  may  have  suffered  through  ten  succes- 
sive bad  plays  by  a  certain  author,  he  must  always 
be  ready  to  recognize  the  merit  of  that  author's 
eleventh  play  if  it  surprisingly  surpasses  its 
predecessors.  Authors  sometimes  grow  up. 
Bought  and  Paid  For  is  written  by  the  author  of 
An  International  Marriage  (I  beg  his  pardon 
for  recalling  it)  ;  and  Kismet  is  the  work  of  the 
same  playwright  who  perpetrated  The  Cottage  in 
the  Air.  The  sympathetic  critic  should  never 
give  up  hope:  even  Mr.  Israel  Zangwill  may  ulti- 
mately write  a  good  play,  if  he  lives  to  the  allotted 
age  of  man. 

Since  the  endeavor  of  real  criticism  is  to  learn 
and  propagate  the  best,  it  is  evident  that  its  func- 


FUNCTION  OF  DRAMATIC  CRITICISM   279 

tion  is  not  destructive  but  constructive;  and  this 
is  another  reason  why  the  critic  must  be  richly 
endowed  with  sympathy.  There  seems  to  be  a 
prevalent  impression  that  the  business  of  the 
critic  is  mainly  to  make  adverse  remarks  concern- 
ing plays  that  happen  to  be  bad ;  and  this  impres- 
sion—  utterly  fallacious  as  it  is  —  is  emphatically 
detrimental  to  the  cause  of  criticism.  It  is  not 
the  proper  function  of  dramatic  criticism  to 
waste  good  thought  upon  the  subject  of  bad 
plays.  Most  bad  plays  would  die  a  natural  death 
if  they  were  merely  let  alone;  and  the  critic 
should  ignore  them.  His  duty  is  to  discover  what 
is  good,  to  explain  why  it  is  good,  and  to  do  all 
in  his  power  to  make  the  good  prevail.  This  is 
more  than  enough  to  keep  him  busy ;  and  to  ask 
him  to  explain  why  a  bad  play  is  bad  is  to  impose 
a  superfluous  task  upon  his  patience.  From  the 
point  of  view  of  the  ideal  of  criticism,  it  is  surely 
a  mistake  for  our  newspapers  to  devote  an  almost 
equal  amount  of  space  to  the  review  of  every 
new  play,  irrespective  of  the  nature  of  its  aim  or 
the  quality  of  its  execution.  When  a  bad  play 
is  produced,  it  would  be  better  to  review  it  in  some 
such  terms  as  these :  — "  Last  evening  a  play 
called  Crime,  by  John  Smith,  was  produced  at 
Brown's  Theatre,  with  Mary  Jones  in  the  leading 
role.  The  audience  seemed  to  like  it  (or  seemed 
not   to).      There  is   nothing  in  it   that   requires 


280         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

critical  consideration."  Sometimes,  of  course, 
when  a  bad  plaj  has  succeeded  and  is  being 
patronized  by  the  public  in  preference  to  several 
better  plays,  it  may  become  the  duty  of  the  critic 
to  prove  that  it  is  bad,  in  order,  by  this  negative 
procedure,  to  help  the  better  to  prevail.  When 
great  numbers  of  innocent  theatre-goers  seem  to 
think  that  Everyucoman,  for  example,  is  a  work 
of  literature,  it  becomes  necessary  for  the  critic 
to  protest ;  but  even  this  duty  is  of  minor  im- 
portance compared  with  some  constructive  task 
of  criticism,  —  the  task,  for  instance,  of  explain- 
ing clearly  to  the  public  in  what  ways  The  Thun- 
derbolt is  a  masterpiece  of  craftsmanship.  Our 
magazine  writers  are  granted  this  great  advan- 
tage over  our  newspaper  writers,  —  that  they  are 
permitted  to  ignore  unworthy  work;  but  they 
seem  to  be  expected  to  devote  more  space  to 
the  consideration  of  plays  that  have  succeeded 
than  to  plays  that  have  failed.  This  latter 
editorial  requirement  leads  them  often  into 
error.  Any  question  of  financial  success  or  fail- 
ure is  impertinent  to  criticism.  Criticism  seeks 
the  best ;  and  for  the  critic  it  is  more  important 
to  write  at  length  about  a  good  play  that  has 
failed  in  a  night  than  about  a  poorer  play  that 
has  crowded  the  theatre  for  an  entire  season. 

But  an  even  more  important  moral  quality  that 
is  required  of  the  critic  is  the  delicate  faculty  of 


FUNCTION  OF  DRAMATIC  CRITICISM   281 

disinterestedness.  He  sliould  always  tell  the  truth 
as  he  sees  it,  for  the  sole  and  self-sufficient  rea- 
son that  that  is  how  he  sees  the  truth,  and  should 
remain  impervious  to  any  ulterior  consideration. 
But  it  is  very  difficult  to  be  disinterested.  Some 
years  ago,  when  Mr.  Belasco  was  fighting  against 
the  organized  power  of  the  so-called  "  theatre 
trust,"  our  reviewers  seemed  to  find  it  difficult  not 
to  help  him  in  that  worthy  cause  by  praising  all 
of  his  productions,  irrespective  of  whether  they 
happened  to  be  good  or  bad.  Our  newspapers 
seem  to  have  a  habit  of  judging  certain  plays  ac- 
cording to  what  is  called  their  "  news  value,"  in- 
stead of  according  to  their  quality  as  works  of 
art.  The  Garden  of  Allah,  for  example,  which 
was  so  bad  a  play  that  it  should  have  been  dis- 
missed by  the  critic  in  a  single  summary  para- 
graph explaining  the  essence  of  its  ineffectiveness, 
was  talked  about  for  column  after  column,  —  be- 
cause the  scenery  was  expensive,  or  the  theatre 
used  to  be  the  New  Theatre,  or  the  camels  were 
real  camels,  or  the  Arabs  were  imported  from  the 
desert,  or  Mr.  Waller's  salary  was  high,  or  any 
other  of  a  multitude  of  reasons  beyond  the  ken 
of  criticism.  Meanwhile,  Mr.  Charles  Ken^'on's 
profoundly  sincere  and  moving  play  entitled 
Kindling  was  allowed  to  linger  along  with  very 
little  notice,  because  it  was  not  supposed  to  Imve 
any  "  news  value." 


282         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

The  disinterested  critic  will  not  be  influenced 
by  that  fetish  of  editors  and  publishers  whose 
name  is  "  what  the  public  wants."  If  the  public 
invariably  and  infallibly  wanted  the  best  that  is 
known  and  thought,  there  would  be  no  work  for 
criticism  to  accomplish.  If  the  public  wants  The 
Never  Homes  and  does  not  want  The  Thunderbolt, 
that  is  the  very  reason  why  the  critic  should 
ignore  the  noisy  "  show  "  and  write  a  dozen  ar- 
ticles to  explain  the  merits  of  Sir  Arthur's  ar- 
tistry. And,  in  the  pursuance  of  his  labor  to  help 
the  best  art  to  prevail,  the  critic  should  never  for 
a  moment  consider  whether  or  not  the  public  is 
likely  to  enjoy  the  things  he  has  to  say.  He 
should  never  write  for  popularity ;  he  should  al- 
ways be  inconsiderate  of  himself;  and  this  is,  per- 
haps, the  finest  flower  of  disinterestedness. 

The  final  mark  of  the  true  critic  is  the  eager- 
ness to  teach.  "  Every  great  poet  is  a  teacher," 
said  Wordsworth,  "  I  wish  to  be  considered  as  a 
teacher  or  as  nothing."  Concerning  this  concep- 
tion of  the  poet's  function  there  may  be  some 
question ;  but  I  do  not  think  that  any  one  can 
doubt  that  every  great  critic  is  a  teacher.  What 
other  word  than  this  so  aptly  fits  a  writer  whose 
endeavor  is  to  "  propagate  the  best  that  is  known 
and  thought".''  It  is  the  critic's  privilege  to 
teach  the  public  what  he  himself  has  learned  from 
his  tireless  study  of  the  works  of  the  creators. 


FUNCTION  OF  DRAMATIC  CRITICISM   283 

The  theatre-going  public  is  not  tireless ;  it  lacks, 
because  it  is  a  crowd,  both  culture  and  equipment ; 
it  is  deficient  in  appreciation,  in  poise,  in  sanity, 
in  judgment.  It  needs  the  service  of  the  critic  to 
estimate  for  it  the  value  of  its  own  experience. 
And  the  dramatist  also  needs  the  service  of  the 
critic  to  elucidate  his  message  and  explain  his 
merits  to  a  public  that  otherwise  might  miss  the 
aim  of  his  endeavor.  The  critic  acts  as  a  mediator 
between  the  artist  and  the  multitude,  explaining 
the  one  to  the  many,  gathering  the  many  to  a 
fresh  and  true  appreciation  of  the  one. 

This  point,  —  that  the  critic  must  be  consid- 
ered as  a  teacher  or  as  nothing,  —  seems  to  me  to 
be,  in  any  high  view  of  the  question,  unassail- 
able; and  yet  this  is  precisely  the  point  that  is 
missed  in  all  but  a  very  little  of  that  vast  volume 
of  writing  concerning  the  contemporary  theatre 
which  pours  from  the  presses  of  our  American 
newspapers  and  magazines.  Most  of  our  dra- 
matic columns  and  departments  seem  to  be  edited 
with  the  idea  that  the  function  of  the  critic  is  not 
to  teach,  but  to  entertain,  not  to  think,  but 
merely  (heaven  knows  why!)  to  be  facetious.  The 
critic  of  painting  is  not  expected  to  be  funny 
about  Velasquez,  but  the  critic  of  the  drama 
Seems  to  be  expected  to  be  funny  about  Ibsen.  Of 
course  there  are  times  when  the  most  effective  way 
to  teach  a  certain  truth  is  by  laughing  very  hard : 


g84         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

consider,  as  an  illustration,  Mr.  Chesterton's  brac- 
ing habit  of  leading  us  to  laugh  our  way  into  the 
very  presence  of  his  God.  But  there  are  also 
limes  for  giving  over  laughter,  and  removing  our 
hats  decorously,  —  in  the  presence,  say,  of  M. 
Maeterlinck. 

The  persevering  triviality  of  the  treatment  of 
tlie  drama  in  our  press  seems  to  be  due  to  the  fact 
that  the  majority  of  our  American  publishers 
have  misconceived  the  sort  of  interest  that  our 
public  has  begun,  latterly,  to  take  in  the  dra- 
matic art.  Our  drama  is  no  longer  a  thing  to 
joke  about.  Serious  works  by  serious-minded 
playwrights  are  being  set  forth,  with  adequate 
acting  and  exemplary  stage-direction,  by  serious- 
minded  managers ;  and  these  works  are  being 
patronized  by  serious-minded  people.  The  mere 
fact  that  thousands  and  thousands  of  people  all 
over  the  country  paid  their  money  for  several 
successive  years  to  see  The  Witching  Hour  proves 
that  our  American  public  is  not  only  willing  but 
eager  to  take  an  intelligent  interest  in  our  best 
dramatic  art.  These  people  —  and  their  name  is 
legion  —  must  be  willing  also  to  listen  to  serious 
dramatic  criticism.  Our  publishers,  for  the  most 
part,  are  a  tremulous  lot.  They  are  beset  for- 
ever with  the  fear  —  to  use  their  own  phrase  —  of 
"  talking  over  people's  heads."  They  do  not  dare 
to  teach,  for  fear  that  nobody  will  listen.    But  the 


FUNCTION  OF  DRAMATIC  CRITICISM   285 

heads  of  those  who  read  about  the  tlieatre  in  our 
various  publications  loom  far  higher  than  these 
publishers  imagine ;  and  the  danger  of  talking 
over  them  is  not  nearly  so  considerable  as  that 
other  danger  —  never  thought  about,  apparently 
—  of  talking  under  them.  The  general  reader  — 
that  genial  gentleman  who  pays  our  printer's 
bills  —  does  not  read  about  the  theatre  unless 
he  is  interested  in  the  theatre ;  and  an  interest  in 
the  theatre  is  in  itself  an  indication  of  intelli- 
gence. Any  person  who  cares  at  all  about  an  art 
must  be  capable  of  caring  earnestly  about  it ;  any 
intelligent  person  must  be  willing  to  think  seri- 
ously concerning  a  subject  that  he  cares  about. 
Why,  then,  should  we  treat  our  tlieatre-going 
public  as  if  it  were  incapable  of  thought,  and 
eager  only  to  look  at  pictures  of  pretty  women 
and  read  facetious  trivialities  .-^ 

Our  theatre-going  public  has  given  ample  evi- 
dence of  its  willingness  to  be  taught.  What  else 
than  this  is  indicated,  for  example,  by  the  growth 
of  the  Drama  League  of  America,  in  less  than 
four  years,  to  a  membership  of  fifty  thousand  in 
over  forty  different  states?  By  the  mere  fact  of 
joining  the  League  these  people  have  practically 
said,  —  "  We  wish  to  learn  the  best  that  is  known 
and  thought  in  the  theatre  of  to-day.  We  want 
to  patronize  the  best  plays.  Tell  us  which  are 
the  best  plays,  and  tell  us  why."     If  we  had  a 


286         STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

single  great  dramatic  critic,  like  Francisque 
Sarcey  for  example,  the  answer  to  these  people 
would  be  easy.  The  League  could  answer,  "  Read 
his  writings ;  read  everything  that  he  writes." 
But  instead  of  this  condition,  we  observe  a  multi- 
tude of  people  asking  eagerly  to  be  taught,  and 
finding  nobody  to  teach  them.  And  this  is  the 
condition  that  the  great  majority  of  our  editors 
confront  with  an  apparently  unalterable  convic- 
tion that-  the  theatre-going  public  does  not  want 
to  be  taught  but  wishes  merely  to  be  entertained. 
But  not  only  is  dramatic  criticism  wanted  by 
the  theatre-going  public ;  it  is  also  wanted  —  it  is 
indeed  desperately  needed  —  by  our  best  creative 
artists  in  the  drama.  The  dramatist  who  has 
written  a  good  play  does  not  need  to  be  told  why 
it  is  good;  but  he  does  need  that  the  public  shall 
be  told  why  it  is  good,  by  some  one  whose  judg- 
ment the  public  has  learned  to  respect.  We  are 
at  present  passing  through  a  period  of  over-pro- 
duction in  our  theatre ;  and  amid  the  multitudi- 
nous bewilderment  of  presentations,  the  average 
theatre-goer  is  left  at  a  loss  to  know  which  plays 
to  patronize.  Hence  the  intervention  of  the  critic 
is  absolutely  necessary,  in  order  that  the  best 
plays  may  be  assisted  to  prevail.  Not  until  the 
function  of  dramatic  criticism  assumes  among  us 
the  dignity  and  the  authority  which  it  exercises 
now  in  Paris  shall  we  be  at  all  certain  that  the 


FUNCTION  OF  DRAMATIC  CRITICISM   287 

best  plays  will  prevail  and  the  poorest  plays  go 
under.  And  how,  unless  wc  can  be  fairly  certain 
that  the  best  plays  will  prevail,  shall  our  promis- 
ing dramatists  be  encouraged  to  stride  for\vard 
boldly  in  their  art,  —  to  conquer  new  provinces 
of  truth  in  the  expectation  of  a  new  appreciation? 
For,  as  Arnold  said,  it  is  one  of  the  functions 
of  criticism  to  prepare  the  way  for  new  creative 
effort  by  establishing  a  current  of  fresh  and  true 
ideas.  The  drama,  in  particular,  is  an  art  that 
derives  its  inspiration  from  the  attitude  of  the 
general  and  public  mind.  You  cannot  give  a 
drama  of  ideas  to  an  audience  devoid  of  them ; 
but  to  an  audience  that  has  been  taught  to  think, 
you  can  give  a  drama  that  makes  it  think  pro- 
foundly. The  critic,  by  teaching  the  public  to 
appreciate  what  is  best  in  the  plays  it  has  already 
seen,  may  prepare  it  to  appreciate  what  is  best 
in  the  plays  that  our  advancing  dramatists  will 
set  before  it  ten  and  twenty  years  from  now. 
Thus  criticism  not  only  follows  but  precedes  cre- 
ation. The  critic  is  not  only  an  expositor  of  the 
best  that  has  been  done ;  he  is  also  a  herald  and 
annunciator  of  the  best  that  is  to  be. 


INDEX 


INDEX 


Abbey,  Edwin  A.,  27,  28. 
Abljey  Theatre,  Dublin,  131, 

249. 
Adams,  Maude,  262. 
Addison,   Joseph,    147. 
Admirable     Crichton,      The, 

130. 
^schylus,    4,    35,    44. 
Aiglon,  L',  119,  156. 
Alice  Sit-By-The-Fire,  149. 
Alleyn,  Edward,  45. 
Ames,  Winthrop,  79. 
Andrea  del  Sarto,  151,  154. 
Angelas,  The,  13. 
Anitra's  Dance,  190. 
Antony    and    Cleopatra,    70, 

180. 
Arabian  Nights,  59. 
Archer,  William,  85,  96,  97, 

98,  272;   Play-Making,  85, 

96. 
Aristotle,  84,  92,  93,  95,  98, 

100. 
Arnold,   Matthew,   208,    274, 

287. 
Ashwell,  Lena,  47. 
As  You  Like  It,  5,  22,  185, 

278. 
Austen,  Jane,  146,  148. 
Avariis,  Les,  196,  197,  203. 
Aviator,  The,  269. 

Bagehot,  Walter,  147. 
Bahr,     Hermann,     18;     The 

Concert,  18,  221. 
Baker,  Elizabeth,  86,  95,  99; 

Chains,  86,  95, 

291 


Baker,  Georjre  Pierce,  267. 

Banville,  Th(-dore  de,  120. 

Barker,  H.  Granville,  51,  53, 
94,  99,  202;  The  Madras 
Home,  74,  94,  96. 

Barric,  Sir  James  Matthew, 
18,  115,  149,  150,  151,  199, 
202,  244,  245,  248;  Alice 
Sit-By-The-Fire,  149;  Lit- 
tle Mary,  150;  Peter  Pan, 
87,  115;  The  Admirable 
Crichton,  150;  The  Twelve 
Pound  Look,  245;  What 
Every  Woman  Knows,  5, 
18,  115. 

Beach  of  Falesd,  The,  174. 

Beau  Brummel,  48. 

Belasco,  David,  9,  18,  39,  41, 
53,  54,  56,  107,  221,  281; 
Madam  Butterfly,  18,  245; 
The  Girl  of  the  Golden 
West,  231 ;  The  Return  of 
Peter  Grimm,  36,  39,  40, 
55. 

Belasco  Theatre,  36. 

Bells,  The,  48. 

Bennett,  Arnold,  99,  156; 
Milestones,  156,  157;  The 
Great  Adventure,  97. 

Bennett,  Richard,  196. 

Benrimo,  J.  Harry,  see 
George  C.  Hazleton,  Jr. 

Best,  Mrs.  A.  Starr,  269. 

Betterton,  Thomas,  45. 

Birthright,  60,  137. 

Blue  Bird,  The,  5,  84,  163. 

Boccaccio,  Giovanni,  13. 


292 


INDEX 


Booth,  Edwin,  47,  205. 
Boston  Public  Library,  27. 
Boswell,  James,  86. 
Bought  and  Paid  For,  278. 
Boyle,     William,     136;     The 

Building   Fund,    136,    137; 

The  Mineral  Workers,  136. 
Brady,  William  A.,  261. 
Brieux,  Eugene,  10,  196,  198, 

199,  203,  270;  Les  Avari^s, 

196,  197,  203;  Les  Hanne- 

tons,      270;      The      Three 

Daughters     of     Monsieur 

Dupont,  270. 
Browne,  Sir  Thomas,  215. 
Brownell,     William     Crary, 

114,  149. 
Browning,  Robert,  157,  254. 
Brunetiere,    Ferdinand,    92, 

95,  96. 
Building    Ftmd,     The,     136, 

137. 
Bulwer-Lytton,  Sir  Edward, 

47,  220;  Richelieu,  47,  205, 

220;   The  Lady  of  Lyons, 

199,  201. 
Burbage,    Richard,    45,    105, 

257. 
Burke,  Edmund,  152. 
Burton,  Richard,  268. 

Caffin,  Charles  H.,  268. 
Calderon,  Don  Pedro  C.   de 

la  Barca,  83,  171,219;  The 

Devotion  of  the  Cross,  171. 
Campbell,  Mrs.  Patrick,  47, 

222. 
Carlton,  W.  N.  C,  267. 
Carol  of  Occupations,  104. 
Carpaccio,  Vittorio,  68. 
Carr6,  Michel,  227;  L' Enfant 

Prodigue,  227. 
Caruso,  Enrico,  229. 
Castelfranco  Madomw,  12. 
Centlivre,  Mrs.,  46. 
Century  Theatre,  79. 


Chains,  86,  95. 

Chantecler,     115,     116,     117, 

118,  119,  121,  262. 
Chaucer,  Geoffrey,  147. 
Chesterton,     Gilbert     Keith, 

284. 
Chorus  Lady,  The,  173. 
Cimabue,    257;    Virgin    En- 
throned, 257. 
City,  The,  20. 
Collier,  William,  172. 
Comus,  217. 
Concert,  The,  18,  221. 
Congreve,  William,  46. 
Conquest   of   Granada,    The, 

240. 
Cooper,     James      Fenimore, 

232. 
Coquelin,  Constant,  118,  122. 
Corneille,     Pierre,     15,     171, 

229. 
Corot,  J.-B.  C,  121. 
Cottage  in  the  Air,  The,  278. 
Court  Theatre,  London,  249. 
Craig,    Edward   Gordon,  28, 

58,  61,  62,  63,  64,  79,  80. 
Cyrano  de  Bergerac,  84,  89, 

119. 

Daly,  Augustin,  221. 
Damaged  Goods,  196,  203. 
Dante    Alighieri,    154,    211; 

Hell,  211. 
Daudet,  Alphonse,  252. 
Davics,  Hubert  Henry,  271; 

The  Mollusc,  271. 
Deep  Purple,  The,  217,  224. 
Dennery,  Adolphe,  221,  224; 

The     Two    Orphans,    213, 

221. 
Devotion  of  the  Cross,  The, 

171. 
Dickens,  Charles,  202. 
Dionysus,  Theatre  of,  36. 
Dissertation   on  Roast   Pig, 

152. 


INDEX 


293 


Divine  Oift,  The,  71. 
Dobson,  Austin,  208. 
Doll's  House,  A,  155. 
Drama  League  of  America, 

264,    265,    266,    267,    268, 

269,    270,    271,    272,    285, 

286. 
Dr.   Jekyll  and  Mr.   Hyde, 

48. 
Drurv  Lane,  Theatre  Royal, 

22,"  52,  221,  222. 
Dryden,     John,     240;     The 

Conquest  of  Granada,  240. 
Dumas,  Alexandre,  fits,  100. 
Dumas,      Alexandre,      pire, 

221;    La    Tour   de   Nesle, 

220. 

Eaton,      "Walter      Prichard, 

268. 
El    Greco,    Domenico    The- 

otocopuli,  154. 
Eliot,  George,  177,  178,  202. 
Emperor  and  Galilean,  240. 
Enfant  Prodigue,  U,  227. 
Ervine,  St.  John  G.,  250. 
Euclid,  191. 
Euripides,  45. 
Everyiooman,  262,  271,  280. 

Fanny's  First  Play,  98. 
Farragut,  Statue  of,  12. 
Faun,  The,  117. 
FMora,  221. 
Fisher,  Charles,  206. 
Fiske,  Harrison  Grey,  59. 
Fiske,  Minnie  Maddern,  51, 

222. 
Fitch,    Clyde,    20,    48,    51; 

Beau    Brummel,   48;    The 

City,  20. 
Flambie,  La,  186. 
Fletcher,  John,  18. 
Follies,  197. 

Fool  Hath  Said,  The,  224. 
Fool's  Revenge,  The,  220. 


Forbes,  James,  173;  The 
Chorus  Lady,  173. 

Forbes-Robertson,  Sir  John- 
ston, 229. 

Freytag,  Gustav,  94,  95; 
Technique  of  the  Drama, 
94. 

Frohman,  Charles,  248. 

Fulton  Theatre,  197. 

Galsworthy,  John,  10,  95,  99, 

199,  20 1',  202;   Strife,   84; 

The  Pigeon,  5,  95,  97,  154, 

201. 
Gaol  Gate,  The,  135. 
Garden   of    Allah,    The,    56, 

281. 
Garrick,  David,  46,  52. 
Ghosts,  84,  89,  154,  180. 
Gillette,    William,    51,    214, 

224;  Held  by  the  Enemy, 

214;    Secret   Service,    223, 

224. 
Giorgione,   12;    Castel franco 

Madonna,  12. 
Giotto,  148. 
Girl    of    the    Golden    West, 

The,  221. 
Globe  Theatre,  52,  108. 
Goldsmith,  Oliver,   165;  She 

Stoops  to  Conquer,  165. 
Gossip  on  Romance,  A,  211, 

235. 
Grahame,  Kenneth,  208. 
Grand  Guignol,  248. 
Great  Adventure,  The,  97, 
Great  Ruby,  The,  231. 
Gregory,      Lady      Augusta, 

127,     131,     133,     135,    249, 

250;  Spreading  the  Neips, 

134;   The  Gaol  Gate,   135; 

The  Rising  of  the  Moon, 

61,    135;    The    Workhouse 

Ward,  134. 
Guido  Reni,  148. 
Guitry,  Lucien,  118. 


294 


INDEX 


Habitation     Enforced,     An, 

14. 
Hamlet,  62,  63,  70,  80,  105, 

156,  185,  193,  228,  229,  241. 
Hannetons,  Les,  270. 
Harvest  Moon,  The,  17. 
Hastings,   Basil   Macdonald, 

99. 
Hauptmann,      Gerhart,      10, 

199. 
Hawthorne,    Nathaniel,    149, 

177,  178,  252;  The  Scarlet 

Letter,  177,  178. 
Hazleton,     George     C,    Jr., 

108;    The    Yellow    Jacket, 

86,  107,  108,  109,  200. 
Hedda  Gabler,  87,  212,  213, 

214,  215,  223,  278. 
Held  by  the  Enemy,  214. 
Hell,  211. 

Henley,  William  Ernest,  211. 
Henry   V,  109. 
Hernani,  220. 
Hervieu,  Paul,  10. 
High  Road,  The,  182. 
Hindle    Wakes,    74,    87,    93, 

205. 
Hofburgtheater,   79. 
Homer,  146,  237;  Iliad,  146; 

Odyssey,  146,  237. 
Houghton,    Stanley,    76,    82, 

93,  99,  205;  Hindle  Wakes, 

74,  87,  93,  205. 
Howells,  William  Dean,  148, 

149,  150. 
Hugo,    Victor,    6,    118,    171, 

220;  Hernani,  220;  Preface 

to     Cromwell,     171;     Buy 

Bias,  220. 

Ibsen,  Henrik,  75,  100,  155, 
156,  180,  181,  203,  5^9, 
240,  266,  269,  278,  283; 
A  Doll's  House,  155;  Em- 
peror and  Galilean,  240; 
Ghosts,   84,    89,    154,   180; 


Hedda  Gabler,  87,  212, 
213,  214,  215,  223,  278; 
Little  Eyolf,  269;  Bos- 
mersholm,  181,  222;  The 
Master  Builder,  156. 

Uiad,  146. 

International  Marriage,  An, 
278. 

In  the  Shadow  of  the  Glen, 
142. 

Irish  Players,  58,  60,  61,  131, 
132,  133,  249,  251. 

Irving,  Laurence,  270. 

Irving,  Sir  Henry,  48,  51. 

James,  Henry,  102,  237. 

Jim  the  Penman,  221. 

Jones,  Henry  Arthur,  48,  71, 
72,  100,  202;  Michael  and 
His  Lost  Angel,  48;  Mrs. 
Dane's  Defence,  47;  The 
Divine  Gift,  71 ;  The  Liars, 
160. 

Judith  Zaraine,  223,  224. 

Jugend,  30. 

Kean,  Edmund,  46. 

Keats,  John,  115,  126,  153. 

Kembles,  The,  46. 

Kenyon,  Charles,  281;  Kin- 
dling, 281. 

Kindling,  281. 

King  Lear,  46. 

King's  College  Chapel,  Cam- 
bridge, 146. 

Kipling,  Rudyard,  14,  139; 
An  Habitation  Enforced, 
14. 

Kismet,  59,  278. 

Kistemaeckers,  Henry,  186; 
La  FlambH,  186. 

Knoblauch,  Edward,  117, 
156;  Kismet,  59,  278; 
Milestones,  156,  157;  The 
Cottage  in  the  Air,  278; 
The  Faun,  117. 


INDEX 


295 


Knowles,  Sheridan,  220 ;  Vir- 
ginius,  220. 

Lady  of  Lyons,  The,  199, 
201. 

Lamb,  Charles,  152,  208; 
Dissertation  on  Roast  Pif/, 
152;  Mrs.  Battle's  Opin- 
ions on  Whist,  152. 

Last  Jxulgmcnt ,  The,  G8. 

Lear,  see  King  Lear. 

Leonardo  da  Vinci,  12,  154; 
Monna  Lisa,  12. 

Liars,  The,  160. 

Lincoln,  Abraham,  259. 

Lincoln,  Statue  of,  12. 

Little  Eyolf,  269. 

Little  Mary,  150. 

Little  Theatre,  9,  79. 

London  Times,  63,  273. 

Lope  de  Vega,  3,  219;  The 
New  Art  of  Making  Plays, 
3. 

Macbeth,  156. 

Macready,  William  Cliarles, 

46. 
Madam  Butterfly,  18,  245. 
Madison  Square  Theatre,  79. 
Madras  House,  The,  74,  94, 

96. 
Maeterlinck,  Maurice,  10,  19, 

38,   39,   76,   199,  284;  Si.s-- 

ter  Beatrice,   19,  38;   The 

Blue  Bird,  5,  84,  163. 
Main,  La,  221. 
Mansfield,  Richard,  48. 
Marks,     Josephine     Preston 

Peabodv,   116;   The  Piper, 

116,  117. 
Marlowe,     Christopher,     82, 

240;       Tamburlatne       the 

Great,  240. 
Masefield,  John,  99. 
Master  Builder,  The,  156. 
Matthews,  Brander,  267. 


Maupassant,  Guy  de,  146; 
La  Parure,   147. 

Maxine  Elliott  Theatre,  9. 

McClellan,  C.  M.  S.,  223; 
Judith  Zaraine,  223,  224. 

M6decin  Malgr6  Lui,  Le, 
228. 

Medical  Review  of  Reviews, 
19G. 

Merchant  of  Venice,  The,  22, 
57,  221. 

Meredith,  George,  202;  The 
Ordeal  of  Richard  Feve- 
rel,  202. 

Michael  and  His  Lost  Angel, 
48. 

Michel  Angelo,  259. 

Mid-Channel,  151. 

Milestones,  156,  157. 

Miller,  Henry,  51. 

Millet,  Jean  Francois,  13; 
The  Angelus,  13. 

Milton,  John,  217;  Comus, 
217;  Paradise  Lost,  147. 

Mineral  Workers,  The,  136. 

Misanthrope,  Le,  IGO. 

Moliere,  J.-B.  Poquelin  de, 
16,  51,  83,  84,  126,  160, 
161,  185,  200,  228,  250, 
261,  262,  263;  Le  MMecin 
Mai  (/re  Lui,  228;  Le  Mi- 
santhrope, 160;  Le  Tar- 
tufe,  5,  16. 

Mollusc,  The,  271. 

Monna  Lisa,  12. 

Moonlight  Sonata,  190. 

Moritwri,  249. 

JIoscow,  Art  Theatre  of,  62, 
80. 

Mrs.  Dane's  Defence,  47. 

Murray,  T.  C,  137;  Birth- 
right, 60,  137. 

Music  Master,  The,  22, 

Nearer,   my    Ood,    to    Thee, 

190. 


296 


INDEX 


Never  Homes,  The,  282. 
New  Art  of  Making  Plays, 

The,  3. 
Neiocomes,  The,  148. 
New  Theatre,  9,   19,  21,  22, 

107,  264,  281. 
Nimes,  Temple  at,  146. 
Notre  Dame  de  Paris,  26. 
Noyes,  Alfred,  34. 

Odyssey,  146,  237. 

(Edipus  King,  36,  147,  165, 

179,  184. 
Ordeal  of  Richard  Feverel, 

The,  202. 
Othello,  47,  147,  213,  214,  215. 
Other  Days,  194. 
Otway,  Thomas,  46. 

Psestum,  Temple  at,  146. 

Paradise  Lost,  147. 

Parker,  Louis  Napoleon,  17; 
Pomander  Walk,  17. 

Parure,  La,  147. 

Paul,  218. 

Peabody,  Josephine  Preston, 
see  Marks. 

Pepys,  Samuel,  147. 

Pericles,  257. 

Perplexed  Husband,  The, 
172. 

Peter  Pan,  87,  115. 

Phidias,  257. 

Pilar-Morin,  Mme.,  227. 

Pinero,  Sir  Arthur  Wing,  4, 
10,  35,  48,  51,  70,  71,  75, 
84,  100,  125,  149,  150,  151, 
161,  181,  199,  202,  248, 
266,  275,  282;  Mid-Chan- 
nel, 151;  The  Second  Mrs. 
Tanqueray,  47,  84,  89,  181 ; 
The  Thunderbolt,  5,  70,  86, 
116,  125,  149,  151,  161, 
193,  261,  271,  280,  282; 
The  Wife  Without  a 
Smile,  151. 


Piper,  The,  116,  117. 

Piatt,  George  Foster,  51. 

Playboy  of  the  Western 
World,  The,  84,  142. 

Play-Making,  85,  96. 

Poe,  Edgar  Allan,  154. 

Pollock,  John,  196;  Dam- 
aged Goods,  196,  203. 

Pomander  Walk,  17. 

Pompeiian  frescoes,  12. 

Preface  to  Cromwell,  171. 

Puvis  de  Chavannes,  27. 

Racine,  Jean,  15,  83,  92,  105, 

171,  229. 
Raphael,  18. 
Regnard,  J.-F.,  84. 
Reicher,  Frank,  262.  jv 

Reinhardt,  Max,  ,29,  |0i,  8t, 

58,    59,    79,   80;    Sumurilh, 

29,  30,  32,  59,  80,  84,  89. 
Return    of    Peter     Orimm, 

The,  36,  39,  40,  55. 
Richard  III,  237. 
Richelieu,  47,  205,  220. 
Riders  to  the  Sea,  140. 
Rising  of  the  Moon,  The,  61, 

135. 
Rivals,  The,  186. 
Rodin,     Auguste,     88,     222; 

The  Thinker,  88,  222. 
Romanesques,  Les,  120. 
Rosedale,  199,  200,  201,  202, 

203,  204,  205,  206. 
Rosmersholm,  181,  222. 
Rossetti,  Dante  Gabriel,  254. 
Rostand,  Edmond,  115,   117, 

118,  119,  120,  121;  Chan- 
tecler,   115,    116,   117,   118, 

119,  121,  262;  Cyrano  de 
Bergerac,  84,  89,  119; 
L'Aiglon,  119,  156;  La 
Samaritaine,  119,  120;  Les 
Rom^anesques,  120. 

Rutherford  and  Son,  74. 
Rtty  Bias,  220. 


INDEX 


297 


Sainte  Chapelle,  146. 

Saint-Gaudens,  Augustus, 
12;  Farragut,  12;  Lincoln, 
12. 

Samaritaine,  La,  119. 

Sand,  George,  119. 

Sarcey,  Francisque,  286. 

Sardou,  Victorien,  219,  221, 
228;  FMora,  221. 

Scarecrow,  The,  262. 

Scarlet  Letter,  The,  177,  178. 

School  for  Scandal,  The,  21, 
105,  221,  228. 

Scott,  Sir  Walter,  232. 

Scribe,  Eugene,  100. 

Second  Mrs.  Tanqueray,  The, 
47,  84,  89,  181. 

Secret  Service,  223,  224. 

Shakespeare,  William,  4,  15, 
22,  36,  37,  39,  45,  47,  52, 
57,  70,  71,  72,  75,  76,  77, 
81,  83,  92,  94,  105,  106, 
107,  108,  109,  125,  126, 
147,  160,  171,  179,  180, 
185,  200,  230,  233,  237, 
241,  259,  261,  262,  263, 
266,  278;  Antony  and  Cle- 
opatra, 70,  180";  As  You 
Like  It,  5,  22,  185,  278; 
Hamlet,  62,  63,  70,  80, 
105,  156,  185,  193,  228, 
229,  241;  Henry  V,  109; 
King  Lear,  46;  Macbeih, 
156;  Othello,  47,  147,  213, 
214,  215;  Richard  III, 
237;  The  Merchant  of 
Venice,  22,  57,  221. 

Shaw,  George  Bernard,  10, 
98,  199,  248,  272;  Fanny's 
First  Play,  98. 

Sheldon,  Edward,  182;  The 
High  Road,  182. 

Sheridan,  Richard  Brinsley, 
21,  46,  83,  105;  The  Ri- 
vals, 186;  The  School  for 
Scandal,  21,  105,  221,  228. 


She  Stoops  to  Conquer,  165. 

Shubert,  l.ve,  261. 

Siddons,  Sarah,  46. 

Simplirissimn.t,  30. 

Sins  of  Society,  The,  222. 

Sister  Beatrice,  19,  38. 

Society  for  P-sychical  Re- 
search, 40. 

Socrates,  153. 

Sophocles,  4,  39,  44,  45,  83, 
84,  105,  106,  126,  147,  160, 
165,  180,  200,  257,  262, 
263;  (Edipus  King,  36, 
147,  165,  179,  184. 

Sowerbj%  Githa,  99;  Ruther- 
ford and  Son,  74. 

Spenser,  Edmund,  147. 

Spreading  the  Nexcs,  134. 

Stevenson,  Robert  Louis,  6, 
90,  96,  102,  174,  211,  235; 
A  Oossip  on  Romance, 
211,  235;  The  Beach  of 
Falesd,  174;  Treasure 
Island,  232,  235;  Victor 
Hugo's  Romances,  6. 

Stuart,  Mary,  153. 

Sudermann,  Hermann,  10, 
199,  249;  Morituri,  249. 

Sumuriin,  29,  30,  32,  59,  80, 
84,  89. 

Sutro,  Alfred,  172;  The 
Perplexed  Husband,  172. 

Synge,  John  Millington,  60, 
131,  138,  139,  140,  142;  In 
the  Shadoxc  of  the  Glen, 
142;  Riders  to  the  Sea, 
140;  The  Playboy  of  the 
Western  World,  84,  142; 
The  Well  of  the  Saints, 
139. 

Tamburlaine  the  Great,  240. 

Tartu fe,  Le,  5,  16. 

Taylor,    Tom,   47,   220;  The 

Fool's  Revenge,  220;  The 

Ticket-of -Leave  Man,  221. 


298 


INDEX 


Technique  of  the  Drama,  94. 

Tennyson,  Alfred,  Lord,  84. 

Terry,  Ellen,  48. 

Thackeray,  William  Make- 
peace, 148,  149,  150,  203; 
The  Newcomes,  148. 

Thinker,  The,  88,  222. 

Thomas,  Augustus,  8,  17,  87; 
The  Harvest  Moon,  17; 
The  Witching  Hour,  17, 
284. 

Three  Daughters  of  Mon- 
sieur Dupont,  The,  370. 

Thunderbolt,  The,  5,  70,  86, 
116,  125,  149,  151,  161, 
193,  261,  271,  280,  282. 

Ticket-of -Leave  Man,  The, 
221. 

Tintoretto,  Jacopo  Robusti, 
68;  The  Last  Judgment, 
68. 

Tour  de  Nesle,  La,  220. 

Treasure  Island,  232,  235. 

Twelve  Pound  Look,  The, 
245. 

Two  Orphans,  The,  213,  221. 

Tyler,  George  C,  55,  56. 

Velasquez,  283, 

Venus  of  Melos,  12,  15,  34, 

88,  146. 
Virgin  Enthroned,  257. 
Virginius,  220. 


Walkley,    Arthur    BinghaiB, 

272,  273. 
Wallack,    Lester,    199,    200, 

203,  204,    206;    Rosedale, 
199,    200,    201,    202,    203, 

204,  205,  206. 
Waller,  Lewis,  281. 
Washington,  George,  259. 
Well    of    the    Saints,    The, 

139. 
What  Every  Woman  Knows, 

.%  18,  115. 
Whip,  The.,  221. 
Whitman,    Walt,     104,     138, 

154,    155,    176;    Carol    of 

Occupations,  104. 
Wife  Without  a  Smile,  The, 

151. 
Winter,    WMlliam,    47,     194, 

195,     197,    198,     199,    201, 

207,  220;  Other  Days,  194. 
Witch,  The,  22. 
Witching     Hour,     The,     17, 

284. 
Wordsworth,    William,    130, 

282. 
Workhouse  Ward,  The,  134. 

Yeats,  William  Butler,  127. 
Yellow  Jacket,  The,  86,  107, 
108,  109,  200. 

Zangwill,  Israel,  278. 


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